


Desirée Gets Whitewashed

by SlutWriter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Ball Sucking, Cock Worship, Excessive Semen, F/M, Huge Breasts, Huge balls, N-word, Oral Sex, Raceplay (Black/White), Racial Humiliation, Racial slurs, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Abuse, White Superiority, huge ass, huge penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: A sassy African-American exotic dancer thinks big black cocks are about the best thing in the world... until she runs into 24 inches of white meat!





	1. Chapter 1

“Jaren Washington - 255 pounds!”    


The announcement echoed through the hall, and as the powerfully-built heavyweight champion flexed good-naturedly at the crowd amidst raucous cheers, Desirée Watters rose from her seat to applaud her man. The big fight was one night away - a much-anticipated title bout pitting the black champion against a brash, up-and-coming white challenger, and the media were blowing it up with all the coded racial language they could manage without being too explicit. Desirée was loving every second of it, for the intensity of such occasions always excited her. She had learned to navigate the macho atmosphere of mixed martial arts gyms and sports media with the same wicked cunning that had made her the queen of strip clubs from Atlanta to Miami, not to mention an Instagram and Snapchat diva with a million eager apprentices.   
  
_ There’s something so lit about knowing your boyfriend could kick anyone’s ass _ , she thought, and bounced up and down and clapped as Jaren gave the crowd a double front bicep pose and cameras flashed. She’d hooked up with plenty of rappers and athletes, but “The Champ” was her current squeeze - a powerful, dominating black male who liked to party when he wasn’t pounding other men into submission with his fists. Desirée loved his physique, his bank account, and the way everyone treated her when she was around him. They formed a true power couple - two people who worked hard with their bodies to amass their fortunes. The only difference between them was that he did his work in a ring, and she did hers on stage and on cam.

Desirée, a fitness model and stripper, was one of the highest-paid female African-American adult performers in the United States, and by looking at her it was easy to see why. The 22-year-old was built like a  _ brick house _ , and millions of followers on Instagram could attest to the fact that her calling card - a massive ebony ass that could absolutely  _ devour _ a thong - was without equal. Her twerking videos, the stuff of legend, were hypnotic in the way they depicted waves of thick booty flesh wobbling, accompanied by the percussion of clapping, oiled up, tattooed cheeks, bouncing in slow motion in their heavy roundness, casting off droplets of stray oil and sweat that glistened in the lens. And it wasn’t just this booty content that fueled her fame. It was the way the presented herself, forming a cult of personality around having the biggest ass, the biggest titties, the biggest, plumpest dick-sucker lips, and living a party lifestyle that involved taking on the biggest black cocks she could find.

It was Desirée who pioneered the “measuring tape” forearm tattoo for black women; a way to hold up her arm on her personal snap and show the brutal length and thickness of the latest pussy-stretching, cum-leaking black shaft. The inch-demarcated ink, accompanied by the name  _ Desirée _ in flowing script and running elbow to hand, quickly became famous as it was featured in photos of her sexual conquests. “ _ This sprung nigga got 13” _ was one caption, showing her measuring her arm against a particularly massive black prong, which was too long for the ten inches that her tattoo covered. “ _ I took it all and tossed that salad too! _ ” she’d added. Her private Snapchat had the video evidence of her bobbing like a hungrily on that pipe, her straight black hair shining as it waved with the motion of her face, augmented by pink extensions. Admirers said she had the shapely musculature of peak Serena Williams with a bulging ass-size that surpassed Nicki Minaj, while her face was every bit as glamorous and enticing as Beyonce, even if her skin tone was a bit darker than the pop diva. Even that detail was something she flexed to get her props. Light-skinned bitches, she said, didn’t  _ fuck wit’ packin’ niggas _ like her.

She adorned the Nubian temple of her well-sculpted body with care. Her nipples were pierced with barbells and her clit also featured a glistening bar with diamond studs on two sides. The flowing, scripted messages on her ass and above her pussy were perfectly on brand - “QUEEN” was scrawled just an inch above her pussy, right where the skin began to darken and thicken into puffy, engorged labia. She had “THOT LIFE” on the massive, melon-sized cheeks of her ass, one word per hemispheric, bouncing flesh mound. She was reclaiming the “THOT” moniker, she crowed, in the same way that other African-Americans had reclaimed the the N-word; by referring to herself and her girlfriends by the same label, making it part of the aspiration. Desirée showed a generation that it was okay to be a THOT, to act like a slut, to take pride in your head game and how many inches of pipe you could take in your waxed, well-groomed pussy.  

In this way, Desirée was inspiring young black girls to  _ own _ being a slut and get paid for it. She encouraged them to invest in themselves and get men paying bills and buying automobiles on their behalf. Her monster ass and breast implants, expensive weaves and extensions, and intricate makeup and tattoo work represented capital well-spent, with the return being a gaudy partying lifestyle that she posted to Snapchat and Instagram - twerking on expensive cars, $1,000 bottles of wine being used to hose down her clapping cheeks, champagne-cork pops and sprays of foam to the face like giant cumshots. She developed such a presence in black media that she was shouted out in the songs of aspiring young hip hop artists. “ _ My girl got a’ ass like ‘Ree, and give head like her too _ ,” was one such line. Having a bitch like Desirée on the arm was thus seen as just as gangster as moving yayo or popping caps in motherfuckers.

Desirée Watters was one _bad black bitch_ who was totally _down to fuck some big cock_. She played the part of the queen bee to perfection. She had the biggest implants (fake enough to look fake, but not fake enough to look like a joke), the thiccest thighs (in the gym, she was a squatting machine), and the biggest, thong-swallowing booty. (Fake? Nobody could be quite sure. But she made Kim K look like Ellen Degeneres) Her eyelashes were teased out to inches long and her fat dick-sucker lips were _always_ Botoxed up, glossed pink and ready to slurp some pipe. Men who saw her club hopping in her dazzling high-hemmed cocktail dresses claimed they could feel their dicks hurting just watching her walk by, looking at each other knowingly with the same unspoken thought.   
  
_Watch out._ _That bitch is from the planet Kill-A-Nigga. She’s out to break a dick *off* tonight._

The aspiration to fame and fortune through hard body-sculpting and strategic silicone was like a religion to Desirée and her disciples - young, fierce black female entrepreneurs who wanted to own the room and be the object of desire for wealthy males who, likewise, had come up from nothing and were looking to impress only the most choice ebony women. But Desirée had another side to her brand. Interspersed between star-making oral sex innuendos, makeup tutorials and inspirational messages was one more refrain she shared with her hundreds of thousands of female fans:

_ White boys ain’t shit. _

Another type of post that Desirée often made was a glimpse into her DMs, where white men would pay her pathetic compliments and she would laugh at their thirstiness and unsolicited dick pics. The message was the same each time she would expose them for the pathetic wannabes they were - she would never fuck a white man. She’d made herself famous by chasing the biggest, thickest cocks. Desirée was mostly silent on racial and social issues - she said nothing about police brutality of the inequalities of modern American life. Her ‘black pride’ took on a very specific form - embracing the legacy of black sexual superiority. If ‘white cucks’ were going to say that people with her skin color had the biggest donkey dicks around, who was she to disagree? So she told her million+ followers exactly that.

_ Fuck white boys. White boys ain’t shit. Niggas are packin’. Get a hung nigga! Get a sprung nigga! Get a nigga with a foot of pipe, who knows how to use that shit! _

This proved to be one of her most popular types of post, and “White Boys Ain’t Shit” merch was even created, sometimes featuring the silhouette of a menacing black penis hanging pendulously beside a tiny white dicklette. She thus got a reputation for being a racially prideful black woman when in fact, she was mostly just focused on cock size. And this was one aspect of her persona that wasn’t just performance. Desirée  _ really _ loved big dicks - the way they looked, the way they made her feel - and she felt a ton of pride that black men, who shared similar backgrounds and experiences to her, seemed to have the biggest ones.

The short text captions on her social media posts told her story.

_ “I only eat ass if he got over 11 inches” _

_ “Need a nigga who bust like a fire hose” _

_ “I’m fierce - but ya’ll can slap me if you got 11” _

_ “If ya’ll seed is thick, after you nut I’m still gonna be suckin” _

_ “A nigga with inches just make me want to sleep with his dick in my mouth xD” _

She had started dating the champ a few months before. Everyone at Jaren’s Black Tiger Gym knew Desirée, and when she walked in to pay her beau a visit during a hard day of sparring, the action slowed to a crawl. A few seconds after the staccato clacking of her dazzling six-inch platform heels announced her arrival, there wasn’t a heavy bag thumping or a speedbag humming. Weights stood unlifted in their cradles. Ropes were unclimbed. And every swinging, sweating black dick in the place decided it was time to take a five minute break and enjoy the show. Each time dozens of hungry young fighters took the time to ogle her every curve; they knew that if they could put a winning streak together, they could have a bad bitch like Desirée on their arm, just like the champ.

But as much as Desirée liked the macho, dick-measuring culture of MMA, and dating a powerful African-American fighter, she absolutely hated his upcoming opponent. 

Her cheers turned to boos and downward-turned thumbs as soon as Deacon Dain appeared on stage. The tattooed white up-and-comer was five years younger than Jaren and undefeated; he’d been granted a title shot due to his talent both in the ring and on the microphone, where he acted like the most obnoxious prick possible, belittling opponents and talking endlessly about his sponsorship deals. The night before, at the pre-fight press conference, Deacon had pointed to Desirée in the crowd and told Jaren: “Not only am I going to beat you, but then I’m going to take your girl home and show her what a real man looks like.” The two men had had to be separated by security, and Desirée herself, wearing a sparkling cocktail dress with no panties, had run up on stage to swing a pair of high heels at Deacon’s entourage, resulting in her bare ass and pussy being plastered all over TMZ. Deacon, unscathed, had tossed her a wink and blown a kiss.

“Fuck ya’ll crackers!” she called out to the stage, hoisting her middle finger at Deacon and his entourage. The nail was expertly manicured with a dollar-sign-shaped glitter finish. “You ain’t shit, your momma ain’t shit and your babies ain’t gonna grow up to be shit!” The pageantry and testosterone of MMA always brought out the sharpest edges of her personality. She kept close watch as Deacon weighed in, and the emcee called out Deacon Dane, 248 pounds.

When Deacon turned to the crowd and flexed, she could see he was absolutely ripped, tighter around the waist than Jaren, who was getting a bit older. Deacon had easily made the 265 limit, even weighing in with his shorts on and his warm-up jacket tied around his waist, and looked utterly confident. She felt a twinge of doubt and shooed it away.

_ Jaren is going to kill that white boy _ , she reassured herself. But as the cameras flashed, Deacon made eye contact with her and winked again, enraging Desirée anew. “Fuck you!” she squawked, leaning forward over the railing that seperated the seats from the stage and and letting her boobs bounce in her daring halter top. “Catch me outside and I’ll cut your ass!” Her big breasts were barely contained by the scant fabric, and the raised mounds of her nipples were obvious to anyone looking her way. Men who say the way her bright amber eyes were blazing told themselves it would be worth getting cut just for one more searing glimpse of eye contact. Desirée’s eyes were brilliant, bright brown that seemed honey-colored in the reflections of the press-conference lighting rig. A man could get lost in them, and seeing the thirst in her face while she worked their joints, many gifted men had, opening their wallets for thousands, tens of thousands worth of dances and attention on any given night.

Deacon turned black toward Jaren and made an obscene gesture, saying something like “you better keep that black bitch in line!” Jaren made a move toward Deacon. Security, which had been beefed up for the event, jumped into intercede. Members of both entourages began throwing water bottles and tussling. Desirée lifted her legs over the barricade (one at a time, and yes, it was very nice to watch for all in attendance) and bounced toward the stage, ass jiggling, ready to use her designer purse as a bludgeon. 

In other words, just your average MMA weigh-in. But Desirée’s night was about to get even more interesting.

 

* * *

 

 

When the tussle ended with no serious harm done (except to the stage and a few unlucky trainers), it was another media circus, white reporters asking white commission officials about white problems, and Desirée had no patience for that. She was ready to leave, and quick.

When Desirée took one look at the line of reporters heading out the back way into the garage, and was told she would have to wait for security to exit, she ‘noped’ out and swaggered away, her buttocks bouncing in her low-slung pink leggings. She’d picked her outfit that night with care, knowing there would be plenty of cameras flashing - pink tights slung so low on her hips that half her ass was visible, a thong underneath that, no bra, breasts bouncing and threatening to burst out of a minimal white crop tie, a tie-style with a knot in the front and a smocked rear showing her sculpted shoulders and back. A gold choker and gold hoop earrings, heavy eye-makeup with eyelids done up in a dazzling royal purple. Lips gleaming and puffed up, matching the pink in her hair extensions, ready to _work_. Good dress for good press.   
  
But this was not good press. All anyone cared about was the possibly cancellation of the fight by the NSAC. Jaren was giving interviews with the head of the organization and told her to go back first and wait for him. She was _royally_ pissed at the way Deacon had acted at the weigh-in, and in no mood to strut in front of a bunch of slack-jawed MMA photographers who were just there to see her man anyway. So she made her way to the maintenance entrance, taking a long, deserted hallway running parallel to the boiler and toward the truck loading bay. 

It turned out that black diva Desirée Watters and white challenger Deacon Dain had one thing in common - a desire to quickly get to the parking garage and back to their hotels. As she approached the service entrance she ran face-first into Deacon, who had the same idea, only coming from the other direction. He was looking as annoyingly smug as ever, amused by the unlikely situation as they stared each other down with a scant five feet of space between them. He towered over her by perhaps a foot, even with her platform heels, but Desirée was not in the business of backing down from any man. Especially not from a rude-ass cracker like Deacon Dain, who thought he was the best thing since sliced (white) bread and who had trolled his way to a title eliminator bout against her current beau by making racially insensitive remarks on Twitter.

“Bitch,” he greeted her, smiling with bemused confidence.

“ _ Cracker _ ,” she returned, with aggressive sass. “You might as well just keep on walkin’ because I got nuthin’ to say to yo’ punk ass.” She swirled a hand in front of her face like a magic spell and then snapped her fingers and bobbed her neck with trademark African-American sass. Deacon was shirtless, with a towel over his neck and a pair of low-waisted compression pants showing off far too much below; this was the first time she’d gotten a close-up look at his ink. The assortment of borderline, plausibly-deniable white supremacist tattoos was about what she’d expected. Celtic crosses high on the breastbone. Death’s Head insignias on the shoulders. Stars on both elbows and knees. A stylized norse rune was visible, because of his uncomfortably low-slung compression tights, just above where the base of his cock would be.

And there was something else. Deacon had been wearing shorts over his compression tights at the ceremonial weigh in. Now, without the shorts, Desirée saw something - a big, fat bulge in his crotch that was too pronounced to be a trick of the light. The big, curving bulge seemed to suggest a mythically large penis, folded in on itself… but that was impossible. Deacon was a white boy, a country-ass cracker, and besides, nobody - white or black or any color in between - had ever had a penis as large as the bulge suggested.

“You wearing a cup to the weigh-ins?” Desirée snarked, crossing her arms and letting her purse hang from one shoulder. “You that scared I’m going to kick you in the balls? Yo’ rude ass would deserve it, too.”

“Bitch, this isn’t a cup. You know what it is,” Deacon replied. “You wish your man had this on him.”

Desirée snorted out an incredulous breath. Was this white boy serious? He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with. She’d sucked and fucked the biggest, coal-black dicks of the hardest, most down gangsta niggas. This boy was  _ trippin’ _ . “Man you ain’t about shit,” she responded. “Just runnin’ your rude-ass mouth like always. Why don’t you take that sawed-off pool noodle you stuffed down yo’ pants and shove it in yo’ mouf so I don’t have to hear your time-wastin’ cracker ass?”

Now it was Deacon’s turn to laugh. “You don’t think this is real?” He reached down and gave his fat, spandex-clad bulge a tug, and it shifted like a dead snake. “I’ll bet you whatever you want. Try me.”

Desirée narrowed her eyes. “Man, give it a rest. I ain’t playin’ games with you. And if Jaren saw this shit he would smoke your ass right now, forget about the fight!” She tugged down on her dress and started to walk toward the loading bay door. “I got to get up out of here before I lose my damn mind!”

She had taken three or four bouncing, clacking steps past Deacon when his voice rang out behind her.

“Talking trash and then backing down. Typical  _ nigger shit _ ,” he taunted. Desirée stopped in her tracks and clenched her teeth, then spun around after taking a deep breath?

“ _What_ did you say motherfucker?” she growled, narrowing her eyes. Instagram having a comment section, she was used to all manner of trolling and had a consummate provocateur’s instinct for just how to needle her haters. If it was a woman, she was no doubt hotter and more desired. If it was a man, she probably had more money and her boyfriends were way more hung. But being called a nigger to her face was something different. She was ready to fight; Deacon might be a trained MMA fighter who outweighed her by 125 pounds, but she had some sparkling manicured nails ready to take out his eyeballs if shit went down, not to mention some teeth that would chomp down on whatever they could find.  
  
“Am I wrong?” Deacon replied, and the calmness in his voice was maddening. “You’re bragging and then leaving without proving shit. I’ll make you a deal. If my cock is bigger than any black guy you’ve ever fucked, you have to give me a blowjob, right now.” 

Desirée blinked, then laughed viciously as the tension went out of her muscles. “Do you know who you’re talking to, white boy? I’m down with niggas that are hung to the fuckin’ floor. Now take your racist ass up out of my ear.”  
  
“Chickenshit, huh?” Deacon continued on. “I should have known.”

“Motherfucker, it’s a fuckin’ stupid bet,” Desirée sassed. “I’m tired of you wastin’ my time. What do I get if I win? You gonna give me head? I don’t want your trailer-trash face anywhere near my pussy. Why don’t you take your sorry ass home and get ready for the ass-whipping my man is going to put on you tomorrow night?” She crossed her arms over her large breasts expectantly, having sufficiently, by her estimation, told off her enemy. Now all that was left was for him to slink away and save face. She would tell her followers on the ‘gram that he was a rude, racist prick, she decided. See how his ass liked getting fucked with by sponsors dropping him.

But Deacon stood his ground, rubbed his strong, pointed jaw, and offered an alternative. “If you win the bet… I’ll be your slave. You can take a social media photo of you riding me and whipping my naked ass. Or me licking your boots. You can show the world that Deacon Dain is nothing but a bitch… on the night before the biggest fight of your man’s life.”

Surprised, Desirée considered the offer. If she were to utterly emasculate and cuck Deacon Dain via her Instagram and Snapchat, it would no doubt lead to an easy victory for Jaren on fight night. Deacon’s confidence and career would be utterly destroyed and his punches would be as ineffectual as his inferior white dick! But there was something about his irrational confidence that gave her pause. It was a stupid bet for him, so why make it? Why make it… unless he was on some other game and had no intention of paying up.

“You a lyin’ motherfucker,” Desirée assessed. 

Deacon shrugged. “I don’t lie. But if you’re too scared-”

Desirée looked at that massive cock bulge. There was no way it could be real. She had seen big dicks, but this was on another level. It looked like a good-sized twelve inch pipe that bulged out, curved in on itself, and then travelled another twelve inches. It was obscenely large - like a nasty joke played at a frat party. In the end, the fact that it couldn’t possibly be real was what made her decide to accept the challenge. Whatever it was - a couple of protective cups in a jockstrap, a joke novelty dildo - whatever it was, and whatever game Deacon was on, she could get her own back by snapping a quick pic and telling the world that Deacon Dain was a pervert who liked exposing himself to black women. Plus, he had called her a nigger… she wasn’t going to let that shit slide!

“Fine, you got a deal,” she said. “Let’s see that tiny white dick and whatever collection of dishtowers and shit you stuffed down there. ‘Cause you’re going to be left with yo’ dick in yo’ hand tomorrow night once my man…”

FLOP.

Desirée’s voice trailed off. Deacon lowered the waistband of his compression tights and his cock didn’t just fall out. It  _ flopped _ out. It didn’t just hang, it  _ swung _ . her heart skipped a beat as she realized she was seeing something that was far larger than any cock she’d ever encountered on a black man. And it was  _ real _ .

“God...damn!” she gasped, in spite of herself, her eyes transfixed. She’d never seen such a heavy, thick, brutal length of  _ bull meat _ ! Deacon’s cock was thicker than her arm and almost as long. It hung down past his knee, bulging with veins, the head a circumsized, engorged knob that seemed larger than both of her fists put together. On the top of the base was tattooed a another series of Viking runes, those favored emblems of rude peckerwoods the world over; in this context it served as a reminder of the unfolding  _ whiteness _ that was right in her face.

Desirée, usually never at a loss for words when it came to “white boys”, found herself momentarily speechless. The biggest cock she’d ever fucked belonged to a black porn star; he’d billed himself at fourteen inches and probably had been a legit thirteen. It was clear that Deacon Dain was at nearly twice as long and thick. Any further teasing and sass died in her throat and she fell to her knees with an expression of awe she couldn’t hide. That fucking white cock looked like it belonged on a fucking elephant!

“Told you,” Deacon said, crossing his arms and letting his meat hang. “Your man isn’t equal to me in the ring, or anywhere else.”

“You…” Desirée stammered, and again her voice died in her mouth. She was absolutely cockstruck by the sheer size and brash virility on display, that monster shaft, those huge balls! She’d made a career of dick-measuring and the aspiration of fucking really hung men, and it hadn’t been just a performance for her fans. It was a true reflection of what she wanted and needed. She loved big cocks, and because black men always had the biggest ones, she’d loved black men. But now she felt her pussy soaking itself at the sight of  _ two feet  _ of throbbing Aryan pipe! And on the heels of that, the realization of her promise; the bet she’d never expected in a million years to lose! 

_ I can just renege on that shit _ , she thought.  _ I can tell him to go fuck himself. That he cheated and used a pump on that motherfucker or injected saline into his balls. Ain’t no contract signed, ain’t no law that says I have to do it. _

_ But he’s so fuckin’ big _ , said another side of her.  _ You know it’s real, he didn’t cheat. He makes the hardest niggas you’ve been with look like some little young-ass babies by comparison. _

She knew that the correct thing to do just laugh, tell Deacon it didn’t matter and Jaren was still going to whip his ass, and then be on her way. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to see with his white friends, pointing and laughing at her, watching him whisper into their ears and reading the words “lying nigger” on his lips. She didn’t want to welsh on the bet. In the end, it was that absurd justification - that he had won the bet, that he somehow deserved what was coming to him - that allowed her to put down her purse and get on her knees in front of him.

“Hurry your ass up before someone sees this shit,” she hissed. But her attitude dissipated again once she found herself staring down the barrel of Deacon’s pipe, right at eye level.  _ Damn, fuckin’ shit is massive _ , she thought, and was ashamed to feel the excitement inside her. She had always been so into black sexuality; embracing even the more questionable portrayals of black men as hung sex gods. Desirée loved big dicks, and she loved black men in part because they had the biggest ones.  _ He makes the brothas I’ve been with look like some tiny-dick little fucking fags, _ she marvelled.  _ He’s totally muthafuckin’ packin’! _ She was ashamed to make this admission, as if she were ‘selling out’ by admitting what was clear - this white  _ bull _ had a cock more than twice as long and twice as thick as any of her black boyfriends.  _ Three times _ longer than most of them. 

Deacon’s from above was legendary; she was spread-thighed, calves and heels splayed behind her, and down the smoothness of her back he could see the massive ebony globes of her monster ass, wobbling and swaying like two huge, water-filled balloons, split by a scant thong that appeared ready to vanish off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Her leggings, low-waisted as they were, put the top half of her cheeks on full display, and Deacon’s roving eye enjoyed every second of his view as he watched her ass bounce and flex beyond the shining plain of her long, straightened black hair.

Desirée inhaled as if preparing for a tough task, and looked head-on at the massive prick helmet and fat pisshole that was bobbing in front of her face. It seemed cavernous, big enough to take her tongue inside. She couldn’t help imagining how that would feel… poking her agile pink tongue tip against that hole and feeling it slide inside that dickslit, so large she could actually tongue-fuck it. It needed to be big because it was a delivery system for all that nasty cum in those big, white nuts! Desirée licked her lips. Renowned for world-class head and possessed of a glamorous nose and flawless cheekbones and facial structure, her lips were her best and most famous facial feature. Thanks to her use of plumping gloss, regular surgical injections and her natural gifts, Desirée’s face sported not just lips but a pair of barbie-glossed  _ dick-slurpers _ . Now, her tongue indented these shining cotton-candy-colored pillows as it circled around.

“Get those big  _ nigger _ lips around my dick,” Deacon growled, wearing an ultra-confident grin. Such a comment would have earned him a kick in the balls and a swift outing on Instagram at any other time, but Desirée’s anger was tempered by her utter cock shock, and she only glared up at him past his throbbing shaft, which was half-hard and bobbing with almost perfectly horizontal tension.

“Fuck you, peckerwood!” Desirée sassed, but when Deacon gripped her shaft and bonked her on the lips with his meat, she made a groaning noise and didn’t resist as he rubbed her lips and nose against his prick helmet, marking her face with the touch of his grapefruit-sized knob. She gasped at how big and spongy the helmet-shaped head was. It gave against her lips, but not too much - there was an insistent firmness beneath the flesh of that knob that was just just enough to allow her lips to press in against the turgid tissues beneath.

“Stretch out your lips and kiss my dick,” Deacon ordered. “Don’t half-ass it now, you owe me. I heard black girls have big lips and now I want to see if that shit is real or just rumor!”

_ It’s muthafuckin’ Botox you country-dumb cracker _ , Desirée thought fiercely, but she did as he said, pursing her lips and then making an exaggerated kissing face as he pressed his huge cocktip against her mouth, letting her kiss and suck his pisshole. She could taste him - the pungent flavor of semen was especially strong, stronger than any other man she’d been with. Against her will, this excited her. Botox or not, her moist, cum-lubed cock-slurping lips provided an amazing cushion for cock as he mashed them around her face, dragging them to and fro with his cocktip, tracing around them as if applying lipstick with his leaking prick.

“Fuckin’ nasty-ass white boy!” she moaned, and when she pulled back, her plump lips were smeared with pre-cum, primed to suck dick. Her nostrils were flared, and she felt every tiny detail of her dilation and salivation as if it were happening in slow motion. How many times had people of Deacon’s race tried to degrade her people, talking about big lips and big noses? Yet here she was, puffing out her lips, taking deep breaths, showing her black face off to this white man, giving herself up to his monster cock!

“You look like a fuckin’ slutty black bitch with those fat nigger dicksuckers!” Deacon marveled. “Damn, they’re soft!” He continued to smear his dicktip around her face, dominating her with it, leaking his cum everywhere and glazing her up. “Nnngh!” he grunted, milking a stroke from mid-shaft to tip with his gripping hand. “This is what I call  _ nigger makeup _ , bitch!”

His piss-pipe bulged and disgorged a hot, nasty rope of chunky cum onto the middle of her forehead, squeezed down the length of his shaft by the tight, milking strokes of his fist. She didn’t get the sense that he was cumming, but rather that his big, fat balls were such cum factories that he had nut to spare! “Fuck! You a quick shot!” Desirée hissed, sounding thirsty, exhaling lustily as he jerked out four or five short, chunky cum-ropes onto her forehead, nose, cheeks and lips. It was such thick nut! It formed bridges between her long eyelashes and her skin, from top lip to bottom lip, it lay on her forehead like a big, albino worm!

“You’re not getting off that easy, bitch,” Deacon said. “That was just pre. You’ve still got a job to do.” 

“Oh, shit!” she gasped, again, reaching up to collect a sperm strand and rub it between her fingers. “Even your pre-nut is thick as fuck! You nasty cracker!” Taking some agency, she dragged her face down over the bulbous rim of his glans and encountered the raised, fat cum-pipe on the underside of his shaft. The network of veins carrying blood to his prong seemed to throb under her loose grip, and even that detail excited her. These vessels were as thick as her dainty fingers and she exhaled sharply as she let his shaft fall to the side of her head and looked left to deliver a full-lipped kiss to one of those bulging, lightning-strike vessels. Desirée hated herself for feeling so worshipful, but she was in awe of cock; loved those veins that carried the blood needed to make it hard so she could experience it at full size. The  _ weight _ of it was amazing. She ran her tongue over her lips again, accentuating them, and arched her back, thrusting her round booty cheeks out, putting them on display.

_ Damn, why am I showing out like this? Like an old racist-ass cartoon? _

She told herself that her lips were big because of her beauty regimen and her ass was big because of surgery and squats, not some sort of racial predisposition. But with that white bull cock in her face, she felt conspicuously black in a way she’d never felt before. She tried to chase away the thoughts, but they came anyway.

_ I’m just a big-lipped, thick-assed black bitch for dat white cock! I want that shit! I’m showin’ out for that white boy dick!  _

He was just so fucking  _ big _ . The size was such that it cancelled any internal questions about self-esteem. The potential consequences of going through with their absurd wager seemed distant, while Deacon’s fat, half-hard fuckmeat was  _ immediate _ and in her face! She reached out a hand to heft and cup his bulging nutsack; it was smooth and sweat-glistening and oh-so-heavy. The sloshing, churning feeling of his balls, and the way his scrotum spilled over the sides of her palm as she tried to hold it up, the testicles hanging like two fat ostrich eggs, made Desirée’s insides turn to jello.

She had never felt such pure breeding power; and the significance of that word -  _ pure _ \- tingled in the back of her mind. She’d never seen Deacon with a black woman; that meant all of his wriggling, impregnating baby seeds had been spent on his own kind. Putting babies in their bellies. She had heard rumors he was a  _ dog _ \- the fuck’em and leave ‘em type. She’d heard that he had a whole mess of kids with a whole mess of trailer trash baby mamas. But looking at the size and prowess of him… for the first time in her life, she thought that white women were lucky. That they had something better than what black women were allowed to have. Deacons  _ huge white nuts _ were pumping out seed, day and night, and just like the restrooms and juke joints of yesteryear, they were WHITES ONLY. She imagined a brigade of blonde, blue-eyed sons; the descendents of Deacon, growing up ripped and hung and ready to dominate in the ring and in the bedroom. It made her shudder and the thick lips of her pussy slid against each other with percolating, sinful wetness as she knee-walked forward and took a place beneath his long shaft, getting a close-up of those big, fat cum factories.

“Damn…” she said, unable to hide how impressed she was. “This shit belongs on a horse!”

“Bigger than your black boyfriends?” Deacon taunted, glowering down at her, arms crossed. His body was a marble statue, an icon of unyielding, tattooed muscle.

“Yeah,” she acquiesced, and felt a pang of wounded pride in her chest. But there was no denying it. Just one of Deacon’s balls was as large as the entire sack of any man she’d ever been with. She felt herself drawn to imagining just how much nut those big, pink sperm tanks could produce, and as she did so, she pressed her face forward into the hot, musk-perfumed crevice between his balls, inhaling experimentally and uttering another “Oh, fuck!"

_ It’s like an animal looking to breed _ , she thought.  _ The scent is so strong and nasty as fuck!  _ She couldn’t resist burying her face in that sack and taking a deep sniff while her bangle-clad hands, with their dazzling “GET MONEY” dollar-sign nails, held him in place. His pink, hot scrotal skin hung heavily between her fingers, contrasting with her darker skin. She felt dizzy and completely overwhelmed as the nut-stench filled her olfactories and drove her body into a state of frenzy. Desirée was a formidable woman, confident and self-sufficient to the extent that her male admirers were afraid to approach such a sassy, soulful minx. Yet here she was, on her knees, sniffing white balls! Degrading as it was, she couldn’t look away. She loved sex, including the scent of sex, and this was the strongest, most pheromone-loaded sex scent she’d ever taken in!

_ Goddamn it girl, get a grip _ , she told herself.  _ Stop this showin’ out. Puffin’ up your lips and suckin’ them nuts, ass twerkin’, nostrils flarin’ wide like you should be in a tribal village with a bone through your nose. Why you coonin’ for this cracker? _

It was a question she dared not answer. She felt Deacon’s balls  _ churn _ against her face, and just knew that his fat cum tanks were brewing up a big load of baby seeds for her; shit, if she had sex with him, his tadpoles would knock up her fertile African eggs instantly! And she knew,  _ just knew, _ that the resulting baby would be pure white; the sperm coming out of these nuts was so powerful that every trace of her ancestry would be obliterated! That twenty-four inch Caucasian pipe could turn any woman into a white-only baby factory! The feeling of that tar-thick, sloshing load, bubbling in those big nuts, ready to fill her up… it was enough to drive her absolutely wild, and though she was dimly aware that she was erasing her fantasies of black sexual prowess and replacing them with an almost subservient sexual respect for colonizer cock, the moment was too intense for her to pull back. She wanted that  _ white nut _ down her  _ black throat _ . Her thick, dusky cunt lips sliding against each other in the front of her tights, showing phat camel toe, producing a conspicuous stain that darkened the pink fabric in a growing circle around her wet cunt!

She started sucking on one fat testicle, blowing it like an ovoid cock, letting her plump, gloss-painted lips spread and contract, spread and contract. She flattened out her talented tongue on her targeted orb and bathed it in spit until it was slick and bubbling, spraying her hot breath onto it, gasping with the arousal of servicing such a sperm-brewing, fist-sized  _ bull nut _ . She could see the way Deacon’s skin stretched with the sheer weight of his endowment and it drove her wild in a way that no cock of her own skin color ever had. In the moment she became increasingly excited to explore this new Caucasian frontier.

_ No wonder these crackers always take whatever they damn please. How many Pocahontases were staring down a pipe like this and fell right to they knees and said ‘Come on in’ Mr. White Man, and take all our shit! _

“Suck my nuts, nigger bitch,” Deacon chided, lowering a hand into her hair and rubbing her scalp with a thumb, in the way a dog’s owner might reward an obedient animal. Normally Desirée would have clawed out a presumptuous john’s eyes for touching her expertly-styled hair, but she couldn’t muster any outrage in the moment. In her own mind, she was a trophy to be won by only the most successful, dominant, and hung men - and Deacon was the first white man who had been able to knock her on her heels with sheer size. When Deacon turned up the heat with racial slurs’, nobody would have blamed her for standing up and leaving, bet or no bet. She didn’t have to take abuse like that no matter the stakes. Part of her knew that. Knew that if she didn’t leave, she was putting cock size ahead of racial and personal pride. The right thing to do was raise up out of there. But… Desirée didn’t move. That monster white cock was just too much to give up. It had flipped a switch inside her.

She let him rub his sweaty, spit-soaked sack all over her face in a degrading display of ownership, and arched her back as a near-orgasmic tingle scintillated in her belly from the act of being so thoroughly overwhelmed in service to big, white balls! Her oral attentions shifted and became more earnest and less reserved. She took big pulls of scrotal skin and sucked on them with hollowed-out cheeks, looking up at Deacon intensely with mascara that was beginning to smear. She couldn’t get even one testicle in her mouth - they were too large, but she did her best, slurping and gagging and drooling against his sack like a baby, her exhalations making it clear she was enjoying every second of it. Much as she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, her libido was purring and her pussy was on fire.

“Shit!” Desirée gasped, pulling back her mouth and letting glistening bridges of spit connect her thick lips to the bulging sack. “You nasty motherfucker!” 

“You talk too much,” Deacon scolded. “Just like every black bitch I know.” And before Desirée could raise up in righteous rage, he grabbed his monster cock and began to slap her face with it, banging the shaft and head off of her lips, nose, cheeks, and forehead. The shaft splattered the split leftover from her ball-sucking and spread it around her face, and she closed her eyes against the assault.

_ This is some LAPD shit _ , Desirée thought. He was  _ slapping the fuck _ out of her black face with his white nightstick, and the blows were stinging but also nasty, reminding her how hard and ready to fuck he was; many times Desirée had banged a cock off her lips or her cheek while looking blazingly up at her man, letting him know that she was willing to get as rough and nasty and  _ off the hook _ as he wanted. Now, this muscled white man was doing it to her, beating her face and letting her know that her dicksucker lips were nothing but cushions for a white cock slapping! Needing to regain some agency, she reached out and grabbed his shaft, beginning to bang that fat dong against her own face, extending her tongue and slapping it on the pink, moist flat.

“You like ‘dat shit?” she hissed up at him. “Mu’hfuckin’ peckerwood getting off on slappin’ a bitch, huh? Well _come on_. I ain’t gonna give you head, you ‘gon have to take it! I want to feel that pipe in my _stomach_ , white boy!” Her teeth were clenched, the dickslaps had brought a livid color to her smooth, dark cheeks. Though the sensible part of her wanted it done, and realized she should have never made the bet, Deacon’s size and aggression had brought out the _wildcat_ inside of Desirée Watters - the ebony goddess who had made an Instagram career out of aspiration toward the most excessive sexual feats, was drawn to the act of handling such a monster cock. The _bad_ _black bitch_ who wanted to choke on some fat cock

Her defiant dirty talk seemed to spur Deacon on, and his hand gripped her hair even tighter as she moaned and tilted her head back. He pressed his spongy, leaking cockhead against her mouth. It was an absolute jawbreaker. No woman without extensive experience sucking cock would ever even attempt it, but Desirée was one such woman, having taken on the biggest cocks she could find over the course of her adult life. Even by those standards, this was a new level. She opened up and groaned as the thick white meat began to stretch her lips and burrow into her mouth. Her jaw creaked as he began to open her up, exploiting and pillaging another unclaimed land, but her eyes were fearless. Her teased out lashes sliced in upward crescents as she stared up, unblinking.

_ Glrruuuuuuuuuuuuurk! _

His monster white dick burrowed into her black throat. Desirée’s eyes reddened and her plump, pillowy dick-suckers stretched into a tube shape as the flesh of her cheeks and face was morphed into a tube shape around Deacon’s dominating white fuckpipe. Her amber eyes were wide with effort and surprise as her throat was taken and her neck bulged with the intruding cock shape. Her tight golden choker stretched so much that the clasp broke and it tumbled to the floor. She gurgled like an animal and a torrent of spit burst from the seal of her mouth and splattered onto the shelf of her bulbous black bimbo tits. The sounds she made were of struggle, tension… and arousal. 

Desirée had given a thousand blowjobs in her life - she was known for world-class head - and during such encounters she was always in control. She would take every inch of her man, talk dirty to him, control his cock like an experienced pilot working a flight stick. By the end, no matter the size of his cock or his bank account, he would be putty in her hands, dumping cash freely on everything from diamond necklaces to Gucci handbags to island vacations. But this time was different. Deacon was absolutely massive, too much even for her, and instead of her usual nasty dirty talk, all that came out of her mouth when his prick helmet punched into the back of her throat was series of humiliating, wet croaking noises. And he wasn’t even a third of the way in. 

Her eyes lost some of their edge and took on docility as she realized she was  _ not _ in control. He had a grip on her hair and his powerful muscles allowed him to control her face with ease,  _ dragging _ her up and down the first eight inches of his shaft, soaping up his meat with her spit as she struggled to breathe. Her breasts hung enormous and banged against each other as he made her nothing but a ghetto chickenhead, and her low position left her round, bulging assmeat to jiggle lewdly behind, two globes of nubian flesh absolutely  _ devouring _ her stringy thong and wobbling lewdly each other with each thrust into her mouth!

Desirée felt something pouring down into her and realized it was Deacon’s pre-cum. He was leaking like a faucet, and even his pre-seed was amazingly thick. Her pussy tingled as she realized he was  _ feeding her _ that cum, letting it  _ slop _ down into her stomach whether she wanted it or not. She could feel it sliding out of his yawning pisshole when he would withdraw his prick-helmet to the front of her mouth, it was so nasty and chunky!

_ Damn! That nut is thicker than any black guy _ , she thought,  _ and he produces way more of that shit too _ . 

He pulled out of her mouth with an audible “pop!” and spit flew in a sheet down the floor. Desirée gasped, breathing hard from the lack of air, but her eyes never moved from the bulbous, cum-leaking cocktip that was poised just in front or and above her face. Deacon maintained his hand’s grip on her hair and pushed her down lower, making her sink to a spread-kneed, ass-on-calves position, and then stroked his length in front of her, milking himself over her as if her black face were just a cum rag. His hand was large, but still barely able to encircle his own girth. He slid it from mid-shaft to tip, milking himself onto her face, letting a fat, chunky cum worm slide from his fat piss slit before Desirée’s cock-struck eyes.

_ Look at that nasty shit _ , she marvelled. And she leaned forward and pursed her glossy, painted lips into a an exaggerated donut shape, and sucked that fat cum worm right out of Deacon’s pisshole like it was a strands of pasta. It piled up on her tongue and she moaned at how strong it tasted and how she would have to chew that mess to swallow it.

“Had enough?” Deacon sneered, bonking her on the nose with his cocktip like a dog owner playing with a pet. “You got almost half of it down your throat. Not bad… for a black bitch.”

Desirée chewed, swallowed, and let Deacon see her throat working to chug that nasty mess, then glared up at him with a spit-glazed chin and vicious amber eyes. “Fuck you, white boy!” she sassed. “You want to fuck my throat? Then fuck it! White boys ain’t shit!”

Deacon’s muscles tensed with a fury that made Desirée’s body tingle with anticipation, and slapped her across the face with an open palm. “Oh, fuck!” Desirée moaned, and a bolt of sizzling submissive energy roiled in her belly. She had been the alpha bitch in every sexual encounter for so long, she barely remembered what it was like to be truly  _ owned _ by a man. Having talked up twelve and thirteen inch cocks for so long, the truth was that almost all men fell short of that rarified air and left her wanting. And as for their money, even when a man spent heavily to ‘buy’ her affections, she didn’t feel submissive at all, but rather like she was getting over on him. Jaren had been the closest thing to a proper counterpart for her - a black alpha stud who took no shit from his training partners or his girl. But even the champ was prone to spoiling her, and their sex was often tender.

But this white boy-

_ He just lit my ass up for talkin’ that shit _ , she marveled.  _ This white boy don’t give a fuck! That’s real alpha shit. He’s not buyin’ me cars or takin’ me out to dinner. He’s treating me like a… like I’m his... _

The unspoken thought made her body shudder, and he grabbed her hair, including the expensive extensions (another typical no-no, but Deacon was quickly becoming the exception to many of her rules), and spit directly into her face. She began gasping, utterly overwhelmed as he expectorate splashed her.

“Beg for my cock,” he ordered. “Come on, beg for it, you  _ thick-ass black bitch _ !”

Gasping, she shook her head, managed to croak out “Fuck you, muh’fucka!”  and he peppered her with more sharp, stinging slaps. She was rubbing her thighs together, using that overwhelming sensation of being disciplined and owned and controlled to kindle a climax that would eventually burn out of control. And after a few more slaps she couldn’t resist. She had always loved rough sex, and this was the roughest and most forbidden encounter she’d ever had.

“Okay,” Desirée gasped, a line of spit hanging from her puffy lower lip. Her tits were oiled up with with cum and lube and absolutely bulging like big, fat, black fuckbags, hanging down over her disheveled and disused halter. “Okay!”

“Say it!” Deacon prompted, and pressed his cocktip right against her cheek. 

“Please fuck  _ my _ throat with your fat fuckin’ white cock!” Desirée wailed. 

“Whose throat?” Deacon barked.

“ _ My _ throat! My black-ass throat! Fuck my muh’fuckin mouf, white boy!” She was absolutely in a tizzy, driven wild with desire and the inappropriateness of her feelings. Desirée hated and loved it at the same time, she felt absolutely out of control and endangered, like she was riding a roller-coaster. There were no brakes, no safe words.

“Not good enough!” Deacon spat again, and Desirée cried out like an animal and inhaled.

“Fuck my  _ nigger face _ !” she cried, and it was enough - Deacon surged forward, towering over her and drilling his cock back into her mouth, straight down into her guts. He didn’t stop at the back of her throat and her showed her no mercy. He was powerful, muscled, relentless. A heavyweight alpha male who specialized in beating other men unconscious, and now he was using all of his power and aggression on her!

“Fuckin’ take every inch you stupid nigger bitch!” he hissed, clutching her head with two hands and powering down her sucking, spasming throat, coring her down to the guts. All limiters were off as they gasped and choked and groaned together, he was using her face as a cocksleeve and didn’t hesitate to degrade her as he did it - calling her a bitch, a slut, and one word most of all - a nigger. He didn’t stop until he was in her guts - until his fat prick helmet was pummeling her stomach and pissing fat gouts of pre-seed into her belly. The outline of his two-foot rod was visible beneath her skin as it utterly dominated her, and all of Desirée’s fans would have been shocked to see how utterly she was being defeated. She was gagging, her eyes squinting, her cheeks puffing out lewdly and her lips pulled out into a sleeve shape around Deacon’s prong. She made constant gagging and heaving noises like an animal:  _ Hrrrrrrrgh! Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrk! Glrrrrrrrrrrgh! _ Spit blew out of her dick-sleeve mouth and dripped onto her fat titties, the latticework of white, bubble expectorate contrasting with her black skin. She was being utterly skull-fucked by a monster white cock…

...and she was fucking loving it. Her inner thighs were soaked as her body shuddered to orgasm and she absolutely creamed herself, squirting powerfully right through her tight leggings and making a puddle of the floor. Her hands wrapped around Deacon’s hips and dug into his ass, clutching his muscled glutes and pulling in him, wanting more, wanting to get fucked deeper, harder, more viciously by this white bull! He wrapped two hands around her head, sunk his hands into her dazzling black hair and obliged, digging into her with short, grinding thrusts, scraping and abrading her throat and guts with the veiny, bulging texture of his enormous, two-foot meat.   
  
“Here it comes!” he spat, his breath quickening after a few minutes of ripping up her guts with his pipe. His strained voice seemed to rejoice in verbally abusing her with racially-charged terms, so much so that his orgasm seemed tied to the invective coming from his mouth. “Swallow it all, you fuckin’  _ nigger bitch _ !” he hissed through gritted teeth, tossing his head back.

Desirée grabbed his ass tighter and an orgasm tore through her gorgeous ebony body like a sirocco. He began to cum deep inside her, straight into her stomach.  _ Slllrg. Spppprt. Splllllrg! _ She could feel the powerful, virile ropes of nut as they splattered inside her. She felt less than human, like a receptacle for baby-making Caucasian semen, and in that moment, as her orgasm tore through her body, she felt as dehumanized and enthralled as she ever had. Black cock had been a lifestyle, white cock was a religion. Her groaning, moaning cry of pleasure around Deacon’s brutal fuckpipe was as filled with revelation as any wailing adherent’s come-to-Jesus moment.

That white cock was just. 

So. 

Big.

She felt his sperm pouring into her, and felt his rock-hard muscles tensing as he marked her insides, spewed his cum into her belly like an alpha-wolf marking his territory. She could feel the hot, boiling weight of it sizzling inside her, unlike anything she’d ever felt, and the pressure of that girthy cock stretching her throat was intense. She knew she must look a sight - straining, face stretched into a cock-shaped tube with plump lips forming the seal around that white dick, eyes watering, mascara running, tits hanging out of her halter in fat globes, loaded with oily spit that was running down her chin in a waterfall. But she didn’t care. White cock was her whole world.

It seemed to last forever, but in reality it was only perhaps twenty seconds of intense spurting before he pulled his still-ejaculating cock from her throat and told her to turn around, get up and turn around and show that ass. And her pride didn’t stop her from scrambling to follow his instructions, standing up to with cum pouring from her mouth and her straight, shining hair whirling with the turn of her shoulders. 

“That’s it. Show me what you niggers are known for,” he growled, and with one hand he ripped her tights down her legs as she arched her back and thrust out her booty. He stroking his still-cumming cock and taking aim. “You know you want it!

“You want to cum on my ass?” she croaked, her throat barely functioning, her sassy voice sounding haggard with all the throat-fucking. “You want that shit?”

“Shake it,” he seethed. “Shake that ass, bitch!”

And in spite of the humiliation and the racially-charged abuse, she did. His cock was the key to unlocking her obedience; that size and prowess and brutality had subjugated Desirée in that moment, conquered any misgivings she might have had. She wanted to please that monster dick and the white man it was attached to, she was no longer thinking in terms of pride or decorum but pure  _ service _ . 

_ He don’t want me to work it like no exotic dancer or no escort _ , she realized.  _ I ain’t that to him. He wants me to shake my shit like what he sees me as.  _

_ He wants me to shake my ass like a fuckin’ *nigger*.  _

The idea made her shudder in a way she couldn’t understand. Desirée started dipping her hips, and making her thick booty cheeks bounce and jiggle. She started clapping those monster ebony ass-mounds, making the flesh pound together, making sounds like whop-whop-whop-whop. She flexed her cheeks in alternating fashion, lifting the huge ebony hemispheres with uncanny rhythm. That white dick had made her want to do it. “Fuckin’ cum on my ass!” she begged. “Give me that muhfuckin’ white nut! Pump that shit all over me!”

She gasped as she felt the heat of fat ropes of cum shooting out over her cheeks, laying thick lines of gooey sperm vertically along her ass that contrasted in color with her 

He grunted mightily as he jerked the last of his load over her cheeks and then stumbled forward, bracing himself against the wall with one hand and leaning over her. Finally, it seemed, he was spent, and Desirée, who had had two orgasms while servicing his white libido, was exhausted as well from the tension, the exertion, the stretching of her throat by that monster. She slumped against the wall as well, turning to face him.

“You nasty motherfucker,” Desirée croaked, rubbing a mix of cum and lube and spit into her tits, greasing them up to gleaming, jiggling orbs and kneading the flesh in her hands, tweaking her own nipples as she looked blazingly up at him. “You musta had a black man in yo’ family tree! You were all up in my guts and you fuckin’ covered my ass!” She moved her hands down past her oiled-up tits and rubbed her midsection just above the waist of her tights, as if savoring the memory of having all that  _ white prong _ plumbing her depths. Her voice was scratchy from the oral assault, and her eyes were red, her face a mask of cum and spit.

Deacon, huffing and puffing, couldn’t help but offer compliment as well. “You’re one crazy bitch,” he gasped. “I can’t believe you took the whole thing. Fuckin’ nasty slut!” Desirée watched Deacon’s cock grow soft and hang down between his muscled thighs. She had indeed taken the whole thing in her throat - twenty-four inches of fat white cock - but it had almost choked her unconscious. A waterfall of spit and throat-slime had poured down her chin and was splattering her huge, dark-complexioned breasts, coating them in a bubbly white mess. She would have to clean up and cover up before making her way to her SUV.    
  
“Not bad,” Deacon admitted, continuing to lean over her against the wall. She could feel his hot breath coming down on her shoulder. He was winded from the exertions of their short but intense encounter. “You’re the only one ever to do that. Guess it’s true what they say about black bitches. You got serious head game.” He made eye contact and she returned it - he looking down, she looking up. His larger body was almost pinning her to the wall, if that was what he had in mind… but he stopped short of touching her. It was almost a tender moment, or one of mutual respect. No white woman had ever handled Deacon’s two-foot fuckmeat, and bombastic trolling and race-baiting aside, Desirée had made him nut faster than anyone else.

“I guess you really are as big as you say, white boy,” Desirée returned, begrudgingly. Though the two were intense rivals and enemies, for the moment, huddled against the cold, painted concrete of the loading hallway wall, they seemed to be at truce.

“So,” Deacon said, his blue eyes meeting her honey-colored ones. “When do I get a piece of that black pussy?”

_ Whump. _

Her knee rose up into his balls with speed that was MMA-worthy, and Deacon immediately made a straining, groaning noise and clutched his enormous testes, turning sideways and doubling over slightly. It hadn’t been a full power shot, but it had been close.

“You… black bitch!” he wheezed, trying to shake it off. Desirée glared at him with arms crossed, managing to look formidable despite her disheveled clothes and cum-covered body.

“Fuck you, cracker!” she sassed. “You ain’t gettin’ no more than you already done got. And you’re lucky I don’t put a case on yo’ punk ass for what you said to me!” She knew she couldn’t let him get over on him like she had and not offer some form of retribution, not if she ever wanted to look at herself in the mirror again. He’d made her wallow in his whiteness, sell him her black sexuality in payment of a bet. In the moment, she’d even taken part in her own humiliation. But now, in the afterglow, coming back to her senses, the sting of that submission was fresh.

“Jaren is going to put a fuckin’ ass-whupping on you tomorrow night,” she went on. “And don’t even think about talking a word of this mess up in his ear. I know you got baby mamas and maybe even a trailer trash wife, and if you get to talkin’, so will I. Understand, white boy?” As she was saying it - cutting off all possible contact between them in the future, Desirée was both sad and relieved. It meant she’d never get another shot at that white cock… but she would also be safe from the way it had made her feel about herself. That monster dick being so superior, the way it made her feel submissive… it had been scary. She had felt like a  _ slave _ with that white pipe in her face. Best to go their separate ways.

Deacon pulled himself to his feet, gingerly rubbing his wounded balls as he pulled up his compression tights over his softening penis. “Double or nothing,” he said.

Desirée’s golden eyes went wide. “Are you serious?” she wailed. “Get the fuck out of here!”

“Double or nothing,” Deacon said again. “If I beat Jaren for the title… I get you too. You’re my slave for a day and you have to give up that ass. And if I lose-”

“-which you will,” she interjected. Jaren had held the title for 36 months and was in the prime of his career.

“If I lose, well hell… pick a penalty,” Deacon offered. “Whatever fucked up shit you can dream up.” His eyes were still alight with maddening confidence.

Desirée rolled her eyes. She knew it was time she walked away, and stopped playing these games. But that smug expression on this white boy’s cracker face made her want to wipe it off. Knowing he had made her feel the way he had, now that she was coming to her senses, it enraged her. She wanted to see him compromised, servile, obedient… the way she had done for him.

“One million,” Desirée declared. “ _ When _ you lose, you bring me one million muthafuckin’ dollars in a suitcase, and present it to me. And I’m gonna record it for my Instagram. And you have to say into my phone, ‘white boys ain’t shit’. And I’m gonna share it with the world.

Desirée felt some satisfaction as Deacon considered it. This wasn’t the crazy confidence he’d shown before, when he’d rigged the bet and knew he was going to win. This time, in order to win, he’d have to beat Jaren “The Manimal” Washington for the heavyweight title. And if he lost, not only would a chunk of his purse be owed to an enemy, but she would make him look like a complete bitch on the ‘gram. There was no way he could take the bet - he was a 3 to 1 underdog in tomorrow’s fight, according to most sportsbooks. She was expecting to savor the sweet taste of timidity as he backed down.

“Alright,” he said. “It’s a bet.”

Desirée’s mouth dropped open with surprise. “Just like that, huh?” she replied. “You one crazy cracker! And I’m about to get  _ paid  _ up in this bitch.”

Deacon offered his hand for a shake. She took it, and the strength of her grip was as formidable as her gaze as they pulled each other close.

“Get that ass ready, nigger,” he seethed into her face. “Once I’m done with you, your gangsta boyfriends won’t each touch the sides.”

“Get my  _ money _ ready,” she seethed back. “You  _ ofay, whitebread, peckerwood, trailer trash, redneck, honky motherfucker! _ ” She shoved his chest and he backed off, glaring at each other. Whatever short mutual respect had developed out of sexual prowess was gone, replaced by pure animosity, rekindled anew.

Desirée clacked off in her heels, looking to find a washroom to get herself correct before she made her way out to the car. Deacon left by the loading doors. Unbeknownst to the sports media and the betting world, the stakes for the biggest heavyweight fight in MMA history had just gotten bigger.

 

* * *

 

Two minutes, thirteen seconds of Round 2. That was the time on the stopped clock when Deacon Dain’s right uppercut crashed into the chin of Jaren Washington and dazed him beyond recovery, leading to a stoppage victory and everyone in the crowd going absolutely apeshit. White boys were climbing over seats, there were riots in the stands. Contingents of hooligans holding flags of historically white European nations, drunk off their asses, celebrating and spilling their beers everywhere.

Desirée had been on the edge of her seat the whole time, finding it impossible to enjoy the fight because of her now-personal stake in it. Normally she was as raucous as any fan but this night she sat stone still, fiddling with the clasp on her purse, biting her lower lip nervously and feeling butterflies assault her stomach anytime there was a flurry of action.

Then, in a flash… it had been over. Black fans threw bottles and trash into the ring as Deacon did a race-baiting interview about being a ‘cerebral fighter’ in there against a ‘big gorilla’ and said that he knew after the uppercut landed that Washington was finished.

Desirée, sitting shellshocked in her third-row seat in a stunning black mini-dress, also felt like she had been finished. She was absolutely still, her face expressionless, while paramedics tended to the recovering Jaren Washington. She wasn’t thinking about consoling her man after the fight (in fact, the loss had taken a lot of shine off of Jaren, in her eyes), but rather the price she had agreed to pay for that loss. 

A day as the ‘slave’ of the new champ, Deacon Dain.

“I guess Jaren will have to get back on welfare,” Deacon joked, and the crowd threw more trash. “Before he runs out of yams and collard greens. Look, I won respect tonight, I won the fight, I won the title. But I also won something else. And there’s a lady sitting in the audience who knows exactly what that is. Bitch, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

He dropped the mic with a thump, then looked out into the audience an unerringly found Desirée, staring her down. She looked back at him with anticipatory, knowing tension, and gulped.

She’d made the deal. Now, it seemed there would be hell to pay.

 


	2. Debts Paid

The Oriental was a strip club in Vegas, though it was not on the strip, and had no employees from “the Orient”. The dancers, servers and bouncers were African-American, and the owners were white. and the decor was a Chinese New Year celebration glitz and Neo-Tokyo techno-glow. It was here in this strangely contradictory club, two months after the fateful fight night that had seen Jaren Washington defeated by an upstart contender, that Desirée Watters returned to the City of Sin to ply her trade.

The Oriental had three raised walkways and poles rimmed with neon lights, extending from the center of the main floor to the edges. On a Friday night it was packed with drunk, rich men waving their blackjack and backgammon winnings in unsteady hands, eager to see a lineup of twelve African-American dancers of which Desirée was the featured attraction. After a successful tour that had taken her through Texas and back up to her stomping grounds of Atlanta (where she had taken nearly $80,000 in tips out of up-and-coming musicians in Bankhead), she had accepted a $10,000 downside fee to be the marquee dancer for the evening.

“Get up near the stage,” the DJ bellowed overtop the kinetics of his club banger. “It’s time for the booty-poppin’ contest! And ya’ll know how to choose the winners - make it rain on them bitches!” A cheer went up from the crowd and dozens of men pulled out billfolds and rolls of cash from the pockets. 

This was Desirée’s moment to shine. She commanded an entire corner of the dressing room to herself and applied a new layer of pale pink plumping gloss to her puffy, moist dick-sucker lips as the other girls gave her a distrustful side eye. Desirée being present meant a lot of money at the club… but it also meant less money for them. They pulled on wigs, pulled up thongs between sweat-glistening black ass-cheeks and adjusted their multi-colored weaves while burning with jealousy. They had names like Destiny, Preciousness, Neesi, Perfection. They were veterans of the strip club circuit in Vegas and they knew how to take down tourists and fill a businessman’s drunken face with clapping, bouncing black ass while they rooted around in his wallet. They were  _ bad bitches _ . But even with the finest implants and ass-enhancements their wads of 10’s and 20’s could buy, none of them had a body like Desirée.

“For real, I’m feelin’ a lot of heat comin’ up of you bitches,” Desirée said, casting a glance backward via her makeup mirror. “Don’t hate just because I’m the only one here who knows how to make money."

“Greedy-ass ‘ho!” came a hiss from the room, as a dancer named Golden Delicious ran a chrome gold lip gloss over her mouth and managed to speak sideways at the same time. “Every time ya’ll come here none of us regular girls can get any food in they mouf!” 

“Bitch I will snatch that weave off your nappy-ass head!” Desirée returned, and finished her makeup, rising from her seat. Her ass-meat didn’t just bounce in the loose fishnet leggings that were her only clothing below the waist, it  _ dropped _ and  _ rebounded _ with each step. While many of the other girls had prodigious asses - some tight, some phat like a bowl of oatmeal and showing that light hint of cellulite around the edges that made the thicc-seekers swoon - none could compare to Desirée’s  _ massive ass globes _ . Her thighs were toned and powerful and then exploded outward into big, burnished brown hemispheres that were almost perfectly round. Each cheek was easily the size of a basketball, flawlessly complexioned and hinting at a dick-aching mix of bounce-a-dime-off-it muscle beneath a layer of marshmallow softness that a man could bury his splayed fingers into. Was it implants? Fat injections? A gift from god? Some said all three. But the fact remained that no girl present could touch Desirée’s physique. She was the alpha bitch in the room and they all knew it. She had the phattest bank account, the flyest ink, she was Gucci, Fendi, Maserati while they were Wal-Mart. 

This might have made Desirée vulnerable to their jealous undermining, but she backed it up with intensity and toughness. Cross Desirée once, the saying went, and a girl might find herself relegated to the “C” stage for the entire night, grinding for what singles she could pry from the fingers of busters and drunks.  _ “If Jay-Z comes in tonight you better get your muh’fuckin binoculars because that’s the only way you’re going to see that nigga’s money,” _ as Desirée put it. Cross her twice and a girl better hope she hadn’t paid much for her extensions because that shit was getting ripped out. Desirée was not to be fucked with, and that was why the girls always backed down. She was the biggest, baddest, hottest black queen bee anyone could imagine. Adept at turning girls against each other or taking them on herself.

“Two minutes, girls,” said a bouncer, knocking on the dressing room door frame. “Time to get that money.” Desirée put the finishing touches on her outfit and made sure she was correct. No panties, no bottoms of any kind - just those fishnet leggings that seemed to barely hold her buttocks, the diamond-shaped spaces large enough to slide fingers into, letting her ass-meat bulge out in a waffle-iron pattern and clearly showing off her shaved pussy. Her clit glittered with a golden ring that was a smaller version of the big hoops in her ears. She wore a gold choker around her neck reminiscent of an African queen. Shining black platform stiletto heels, six-inches high, made her toned, athletic legs look even longer. She wore a gossamer gold belly chain and a golden stud in her navel. The only piece of true clothing on her body was a black silk bikini top with small triangular cups that didn’t even cover her large, porous areolas, let alone her huge breasts, which were the perfect mix between plausibly huge and lewdly fake. Each was easily the size of a man’s head.

Desirée spritzed some gold sparkles on herself and walked toward the door, heels clacking. Her straightened, silky black hair cascaded down her back, nearly to the top of her hips. One streak of hair was bright gold, the only detectable piece of artifice in an otherwise majestic, regal flow. “Let me show you how it’s done, bitches,” she taunted, and walked out on stage to the roars of the crowd. Tits flopping. Ass-mounds clapping. Puffy lips of her shaved pussy unhidden by the barely-there leggings and her big, protruding nipples tenting the black cups of her straining bikini top, in which her heavy breasts hung enormous, causing the strings to strain. 

As the DJ busted into the traditional music for main event of the evening - “Tip Drill” by Nelly, Desirée led the other strutting, sinfully-dressed African-American dancers out on triple walkway, where three poles were waiting and customers were lining the edges. The cops had been given a kickback to look the other way when it came to Las Vegas’ sexual touching laws, both on stage and in the “champagne rooms” in the back, and when Desirée walked out and swung around the pole before opening her thighs and squatting down to pop that pussy in their faces, a dozen desperate eyes and grasping hands reached out with money at the ready. As she favored them with a sultry stare and licked her luscious lips, they blew geysers of folding cash all over her inner thighs like it was cum. Tens, twenties, even a few Benjamins began piling up beneath her feet, and every wannabe playboy and gangsta in the joint had his roll out to peel off some notes in tribute.

“Fuckin’  _ ass meat _ !” growled one gruff dark-skinned suitor as Desirée turned around, getting to her knees and making her booty twerk, first lifting one cheek, then the other, then bouncing them against each other and making the spritz of water and sweat on her skin fly off in a haze. Bills were stuffed into her tights. “How ‘bout I take you in the back and pay off that car? Or buy you a new one?” he continued, and Desirée took his cash and then pie-faced him away.

“Muh’fucka I got that car for free from a buster like you,” she hissed. The Desirée of two months ago might have been on the prowl for a black man who seemed to be packing some serious heat between his legs, but since the incident with Deacon, Desirée found that such things interested her less. She found the pick up lines and come-ons of black men more annoying than potentially fruitful, and she found their urban charms more tiresome and tacky than libido-stoking. She tried not to think too much about why this was, though the question nipped at her more and more lately as she plied her trade.

A drunken white businessman reached out and slapped her rear end, he had his tie undone and looked like he’d been chaining cocktails all night. The bouncers were on him immediately, taking him down with the force of a police arrest. Desirée stood up and took a step over to the pole, bending over, shaking her tits side to side and letting the metal pipe slide between her round, bubbly ass-cheeks, showing how much _pipe_ those ass-mounds could make disappear. A cheer went up and she smiled enticingly. But inside she her stomach was in knots. That white slob had reached out and slapped her ass like she was a piece of meat… and her mind had immediately ventured back to that encounter with Deacon after the weigh-in. He, too, had been a white man who hadn’t thought twice about taking what he wanted. And the bet they had made was still outstanding. He had not come to collect. In fact, she hadn’t seen Deacon since fight night.  
  
“Stuck up ‘ho!” came a catcall from the side of the stage. The man she had pie-faced, a African-American in his 20’s with the fashion and flash of a musician or athlete, was addressing her with a grave expression. “I done spent $400 in drinks, $500 in tips and dropped another $500 in paper on that ass! And this is how you goin’ to do me? I was going to put in my music video girl - make you famous!” 

“Man, fuck you and fuck your tired-ass mixed tape,” Desirée spat back, bending over and twerking toward the other side of the stage. “Ashy-looking muh’fucka!” Even she realized that this was uncharacteristic of her. Even when she didn’t feel like flirting with men, she tended not to spurn them hard when there was money to be made. Yet something about this man had her more upset than she’d been before. He was black - like her - and she just found that… boring.

She thought again about how that white customer had just smacked her black ass without a second thought and her pussy turned to liquid.

_ Damn _ , she thought.  _ Why am I getting worked up thinking about some rude cracker? Was it the way he just smacked me like he owned my black ass? _ Her stomach trembled like cold water had been poured inside.  _ No, no. He was just drunk. Just drunk and grabby. Come on, get it together, ‘Ree! _

She spun down onto the stage and crawled, knee and elbow, toward the front, making sure to let her huge tits press and compact against the black, neon-reflective lacquered surface while her twin ass-globes bounced and wobbled above her arched back. She licked her lips and made sultry eye contact with the first person she saw at stage front, who also happened to be white. Her moist lips parted in a way that made it clear she wanted to suck some cock. That she was the sort of bitch who wanted a man to get behind her and fuck that ass. That she wanted to get her wet, shaved, puffy pussy pumped by some big dick! The pose might as well have been called  _ woman in heat _ . The cash flowed like water. The bouncers had to take down two more men who wanted to reach out and get a touch, and through the corner of her eye, Desirée’ saw the black man who had catcalled her walking out the front door with his boys. She had treated him so shabbily, he was bouncing and going to another club. A pang of guilty satisfaction shot through her heart.

_ Get gone, busta-ass nigga.  _ She didn’t know why it felt so satisfying to turn away a man of her own race… while she hadn’t reacted to any of the white men who were taking far more liberties. Or perhaps she did, and simply didn’t want to admit that the brothers no longer revved her motor as they once had. Ten inches? Twelve inches? Thirteen inches? The biggest, blackest cocks she’d ever had seemed so inadequate compared to what she’d seen and felt between the legs of the new, white heavyweight champ of the world, Deacon Dane.

As she finished out the song, and her performance, it was white cock, not black, that was on her mind.

 

* * *

 

Desirée was still collecting paper money from her bra and fishnets when one of the servers poked her head into the dressing area.  

“White boy askin’ for you, Ree,” she said, popping some bubblegum between neon-painted lips that glowed in the blacklights cast by the club’s ceiling. “Good tipper but fuckin’ ruuuuude.” She waved a fresh hundred dollar bill and put it down on her tray before gesturing with her head. “In the back.”

The back was the remotest of the Oriental’s private rooms, a plushly furnished place for lap dances and intimate moments between dancers and ‘special’ customers who paid handsomely for the privilege. On nights when celebrities gathered, like fight nights, musicians, movie stars and athletes of all ethnicities could be found there, having their dicks sucked by a hot, willing African-American dancer who was sure to make at least $1000 for the night’s work.

Desirée walked out of the dressing room and along the side of the stage, with every table waving money and calling to her along the way. One broad-shouldered African-American man was showing a gold money clip with a thick wad of cash in it; obviously offering it for her time, some lap-dances, and perhaps more. It would be a good score - by the look of his gator-leather pants he was packing some serious meat - and he was even a little handsome.    
  
_ Take that score Ree _ , a voice inside her said.  _ Why you trippin’ and going to dance for some white boy when you got a real sprung nigga on deck for at least three grand?  _ She ignored it and kept walking, not wanting to think about it or decipher what it might mean, only knowing that she was interested in the mystery man in the champagne room, not the known commodity on the floor. She didn’t even turn her head.

“Rude-ass bitch,” the man catcalled after her, his voice a deep bass.   
  
“Fuck you, nigga!” she spat back, not even turning her head, and made her way down the hall. The room was closed and a sign hanging on the doorknob read “Private - No Service Unless Requested”. She opened it, not knowing quite what she would see but knowing this john would be arrogant and white, not knowing why she was looking forward in some strange way to dealing with that. She stepped inside the room and shut the door, muffling the thumping club music, and when she turned toward the plush booth on the back wall, stopped in her tracks and stared.

It was  _ him _ .

Deacon Dane had cleaned up in the two months following his heavyweight title victory. Instead of loose jock athletic gear he wore a smart grey double-breasted suit tailored to his lean, athletic physique, complete with a vest.  His wild blonde hair spilled down to his collar. Yet even beneath this facade he had a trashy gaudiness. His shoes were snakeskin and gem encrusted rings decorated two fingers of his left hand. He had a new Norse rune tattooed between thumb and forefinger on the same hand. He had the appearance of class but it was only skin deep.

He nodded at her and his mouth drew into an arrogant smile. “Bitch,” he said. It was more greeting than insult.

“Cracker,” she shot back, crossing her arms beneath her huge, bikini-constrained tits. They formed sweat-spritzed mountains above her slender wrists.

“Didn't think I was going to show up, did you?” Deacon went on, reclining regally against the cushioned back of the booth. “You thought you were off the hook.”

“I didn’t even think twice about yo’ punk ass,” Desirée shot back, but it was a lie and they both knew it. 

“That hurts my feelings,” Deacon said, chuckling in his way, the way that said he was totally in charge and nothing she could say or do could affect him in the least. “I thought you’d be counting the days until I came to take what was owed.”

Desirée simply stared at him, and Deacon produced a wad of bills from his suit jacket. Beneath it, his muscles bulged underneath a shirt and suspenders. “Maybe this will make it easier,” he said, rolling his eyes, as if Desirée was just wasting his time by playing coy. “Let’s pretend for now that I’m just a customer.”

“A customer, huh?”

“Yeah,” Deacon confirmed, slapping down a wad of bills on the small circular table next to the booth. “A paying customer. Now bend over and show me that big, black ass!”

Desirée’s eyes seemed to widen and her nostrils flared as if she was ready to burst out at Deacon, telling him what she thought of his skin color, his ridiculous suit, his high-handed attitude, his money, and his momma. But after a moment, the look of concealed rage vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she walked to the table with a perturbed expression, thighs flexing and buttocks bouncing as her heels clicked on the room’s hardwood floor. She stopped just short of Deacon and looked at the stack of banknotes… and down to the crotch of his tailored slacks. 

What she saw made her belly turn to ice water. A huge, captive tube-like bulge leading down one of his legs, all the way to his knee. Her mind flashed back, unbidden, to the time in the loading area, after the weigh-ins. She’d had that fucking  _ monster _ right in her face! Two feet of  _ throbbing _ white meat.

“Just a customer,” she said, making eye contact with him. “Just another randy-ass white boy, huh?” Her manicured fingers traced over the stack of cash and fanned it with a thumb. It was a fresh $10,000 band of perfectly uniform hundreds. Shit, it even  _ smelled _ like a bank.

“Yeah,” Deacon said. “And that means you’re just a dancer! And I know the black girls here like it a little rough!” Before she could react he reached out and took her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. Desirée was built, graceful and powerful, but he was a larger, explosive athlete, and drew her wasp-waist into him without much effort. Her buttocks washed over his thighs in two big, bouncy drifts.

“Oh, fuck!” Desirée cried. She could feel that meat pipe pressing against her ass. “Fuckin’ white boy, I could snap my fingers and get the bouncers-”

“I could beat the shit out of the fucking bouncers and you know it,” Deacon hissed, bringing one hand to his necktie and loosening it before moving one by one down the buttons of his suit jacket releasing each. “Don’t let this suit fool you. I’m not the respectable type.” He seemed to flex his thigh and the fat meat pole bulging in his pants leg surged against Desirée’s round ass, causing her gasp.

“Yeah I know,” she snapped. “You jus’ a fuckin’ nasty white boy!” Already her voice had started to change; Desirée had one tone and register for dealing with the public, if she was in line at the bank or at the car dealership, or an upscale boutique. But now the other Desirée was coming out - the more urban, hoot rat Desirée.

_ Why do I want to sound more black for him _ , she thought.  _ I sound like a little pickaninny girl with a basket full of cotton _ .

Deacon tossed his jacket on the corner of the booth and unbuttoned his shirt as well. Her toned, sculpted back pressed against his bare chest and their sweat sizzled together. “And you’re just a nasty black bitch,” he growled, pulling her waist harder against him. Her ass was grinding right on top of his throbbing dick bulge, which was growing in size and trapped in the leg of his pants. He brought her hand to his belt. “Now, take out my cock and get to work.” 

Desirée felt panic inside her.  _ This is it _ , she thought.  _ Gotta stop it now. Gotta shut him down and tell him it was all just bullshit and he ain’t getting none of this pussy. _

She raised her voice and began to read him the riot act. “White muh’fucka I ain’t takin’  _ shit _ out-’

His hand slid down between her legs instantly, powerfully, and two of his fingers slid probed powerfully against her puffy labia, dividing them and sliding against the moist honeypot beneath. Desirée’s voice cut off with a gasp and her amber eyes went newly wide as she blew out a hot breath. 

“You’re fuckin’ soaked!” Deacon crowed, and then posted his arm to tilt Desirée off his lap for a moment. A wet spot had appeared on his thigh where the pipe-like dick bulge was running. “You try to play hard to get but you’re creaming for this cock, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you!” Desirée sassed, but he yanked her back down and shoved his two fingers in deeper than before. Her pussy was molten. There was no denying the effect it had on her to be grinding her ass against that monster cock! She could object, she could sass, she could insult, but she couldn’t hide how wet her pussy was, and when he slapped one of her big, black ass cheeks her cry sounded more like pleasure than pain.

“Get my dick out,” he ordered again.

“No!” Desirée cried. She wiggled her hips and it only turned her on more as she felt that  _ meat _ beneath her pillowy round ass.

Deacon began to rub up inside her slit, finding her G-spot, that rise of flesh inside her vaginal canal. At the same time he put his mouth right next to her air, breathing in sweat and perfume and hair product, and growled his ultimate command: 

“Get on your knees and take my big white cock out,  _ nigger _ .”    
  
Desirée bit her bottom lip and her pelvis surged upward into his fingers while her ass-globes rubbed all over his thighs. Hearing that forbidden word catalyzed something in her that she couldn’t understand and couldn’t admit. This muscled, hung white stud had come to her place, pulled her onto his lap, started finger-banging her wet, tight pussy… and had called her a fucking nigger while he was doing it. He was treating her like a piece of black  _ sexmeat _ !

“Oh...f-fuuuuuck you nasty muh’fuckin cracker!” she gasped, wailing out as her body began spasming and shuddering in the throes of a humiliating orgasm. Deacon’s strong fingers had rubbed her to climax, helped in no small part by the intensity of his physical control and the brutality of his words. “You fuckin’… white bastard!” She moaned and gyrated against him, riding out her climax, and then when her breathing finally stopped hitching and gasping, he removed his fingers and she slid to the floor in front of the booth, landing knock-kneed on all fours between his manspread thighs. His right pantleg looked like it was housing an intercontinental ballistic missile.

“You just came from being called a fuckin’ nigger,” he prompted, his face devilish and teasing. “You love that shit, don’t you? You act like a tough black bitch but all you really want is a white man who will call you a nigger right to your fucking face!” He laughed at Desirée’s seething expression. “Now stop playing games. Take it out and get to work.”

“Fuckin’ nasty fucker!” Desirée spat back, her eyes intense with frustration and dislike, but her body moved nonetheless, and she crawled forward and began to fumble with his belt buckle, undoing it with a jingle, then undoing the buttons of his fly and tugging down on his pants and boxer briefs. The base of Deacon’s tree-trunk cock, decorated by a trim triangle blonde pubic hair, came into view. She reached down and gripped it with two dark hands, her dazzling golden fingernails barely touching on the opposite side as she tried to encircle it with her hands and haul that  _ hog _ out of his pants leg.

_ What a fuckin’ white horse cock _ , she thought.  _ God, I can’t even get my fingers around it! It’s thick as a log in a rail fence!  _ Her fingers rubbed over the bulge made by Deacon’s urethra - it was as prominent as two of her digits put together, and some of the fat veins running across the top seemed to outside her pinky. And it was so heavy! A real slab of  _ fuckmeat _ , so much larger than the coal black pipes she’d sucked and fucked with such abandon for so many years.

She drew it from his pants leg like a sword from a scabbard, watching as the slacks bulge gradually disappeared and the shaft entered the open air. It was like a magic trick or an optical illusion - just when she thought there was no way he could have any more dick in his pants, Deacon seemed to have a couple more inches. When it finally popped out of the waistband of his underwear, half-hard, it flopped back against his chest like a sleeping anaconda. 

“Oh my fuckin’ gawwwwd,” Desirée moaned, and her voice was filled with dismay. Dismay because she didn’t  _ want _ to like it. Her mind, her pride, wanted her to rise up send this white boy packing, with a heeled foot in his hindquarters for good measure. But that dick. That big, thick, nasty white dick! It was like something that belonged on a horse. It made all of her previous black boyfriends, hookups and johns look like a  _ joke _ .

“Bigger than any black cock you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” Deacon prompted, and Desirée looked at him fiercely for a moment… and then, deflated, her shoulders slumping. She nodded her head meekly, reluctantly. There was no use arguing, no use denying. The pure, white truth was right in her face… and to say otherwise would just be a lie. She leaned in, tugging Deacon’s fly open further, letting his big, round nuts emerge and hang down onto the booth’s red leather seat. God, they were fucking  _ huge _ . Each one looked as big as a coconuts to her eyes, and she could almost sense them churning up wad after wad of dominating, conquering, bitch-breeding sperm. It was an in-your-face display of  _ white dominance _ . And her recently finger-fucked pussy was soaked.   
  
“Bet you’ve been waiting on me, coming to collect,” Deacon teased, his voice always with the same maddening, superior tone. “Bet you’ve been counting the days.” 

“Fuck no,” Desirée said, turning her head to the side to hide her blushing. “Yo’ ass got lucky one night. I haven’t even wasted my time on it.” But that was a lie. For the first few days after the big fight, she’d been dreading running into him, wondering what would happen. Even in the following weeks, when Deacon failed to appear, it had never been far from her mind. She took bookings at clubs, keeping herself busy on the circuit, but the spectre of the outstanding bet haunted her. As with this evening at the Oriental, for the past two months she’d found herself foregoing lap dances with rich black men to concentrate on white johns… and she let them touch and take liberties that she never had before.

At such times she would ask herself, _why you doin’ this, Ree? Why are you showing out for white boys and giving the cold shoulder to the brothas?_ Even her demeanor and patterns of speech changed. With the black men she was as sassy as ever, using her body and practiced cock-pleasing skills to milk them for every dollar. And if they got belligerent about the cost or tried to get over on her for free gropes, she set them straight quick. The Desirée of old didn’t take any shit. But in these last eight weeks, it had been different with white men. She tended to gravitate toward them in the clubs and her voice and speech took on a more submissive tone. And that wasn’t all. The words she used, the way she said things, had an anachronistic quality that was right off the plantation. 

_ “You gonna show this black girl a good time, mistuh?” _ _   
_ _ “That’s it honey, you grab that ass. You in charge.” _

And one time an especially drunk businessman, upon being told that a club was closing up, had literally shoved a wad of cash into her mouth. “Here you go,  _ black _ ,” he’d said, in a gruff Australian accent, spitting the final words from his mouth as if it disgusted him. Had she slapped? Eye gouged? Hit him in the balls? No. 

Desirée, the fiercest black bitch in town had simply pulled the money from her mouth and said: “Thank you, baby!” Later that night she had replayed the scenario in bed, scolding herself for not reacting more strongly and showing that arrogant, rude peckerwood that nobody treated Ree that shabbily. Why had she allowed him to get away with it?

The answer was Deacon. Ever since seeing his enormous cock and feeling it pumping cum down her throat, she hadn’t been able to look at any white man the same way. She had considered them pay pigs and worms. Now, she saw them as  _ bulls _ . Dominating, brutal white bulls with a taste for black flesh. But she couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. She had based so much of her adult life on the premise that black men were superior. She had formed a cult of personality around being the baddest bitch, untouchable by white men.

“Get those tits around my cock,” Deacon ordered. “Stop stalling. Or are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?” 

“Muh’fuckin’ rude-ass white boy,” Desirée snapped, reaching behind herself to unfasten the scant strings of her black bikini top. It fell away, revealing her huge caramel-colored tits with their raised, dark nipples. “If you didn’t lay down that cash-”

“You owe me,” said Deacon. “You’re not a hooker, you’re a slave. Just like we said.”

“Well you a john!” Desirée snapped back, and she slid up onto his lap, hooking her legs over his and pressing his mammoth meat into the channel formed by her big jugs. “You a muh’fuckin’ bill payer! Not no  _ king _ , not no massuh!”

_ Did you just say ‘massuh’? Girl, you sound like a muh’fuckin’ pickaninny-ass slave. What’s wrong with you? _

And on the heels of that thought, his hand went to her perfumed hair and took fist, yanking her head back and to the side. It was an aggressive move, and Desirée gasped as she made desperate eye control.

“Wrong,” Deacon growled. Their faces were only a few inches apart. “The money makes no fucking difference. Because here’s what I’m buying with it.” He reached around and took a groping, dominating handful of her right ass-cheek, kneading it and compressing the flesh between his strong fingers until it burst out from between each digit like a loaf of rising bread. “$2,500 of that $10,000 is for that. What is that?”

“My ass!” Desirée gasped. Being manhandled by him, thrown around by him, by a white man, was turning her knees to jelly and making her pussy tingle shamefully.   
  
“Wrong. It’s meat. Tell me what it is!” He tightened his grip and her neck bent back even more.

“Meat! It’s muh’fuckin meat!” she wailed. Her body was in fire. He was so strong, so uncompromising, and he didn’t give a shit what she thought - all traits that she now considered to be  _ white _ . 

“What kind of meat?”

“B-Black!” Desirée gasped. His opposite hand came up and fucking  _ lit her up _ , smacking her across the face and making her groan with a combination of humiliated pleasure and sorrow.

“Wrong,” Deacon seethed. “Wrong again. What kinda is it?”

Desirée made eye contact with him and tears came to her eyes. Her pussy quivered as, against her instincts of pride, the submission poured out of her soul. She knew what he wanted to hear. “Nigger!” she moaned, desperately, swallowing and then adding: “It’s  _ nigger _ meat. My muh’fuckin  _ nigger ass-meat _ .”

“Yes,” Deacon said, pulling her head fiercely. “And when a man buys  _ that _ , he isn’t a fucking john, is he?”

Desirée shook her head.

“What is he?”

“A m-master,” she breathed, her throat nearly swallowing the words. He spun her around roughly, lifting and turning her with a firm arm around her waist, settling her rear end down on his cock. Her big, round cheeks pinned the now-hard length against his chest, it emerged from the cavern of flesh to extend further up and hover between her shoulders. She gasped as she felt her asshole twitching against his  _ size _ . The fat cum tube of his urethra thrummed with virile energy on her most sensitive place. Her pussy, betraying her arousal, was sinfully wet, her labia separated as they nestled against his pipe and left a foamy mess of wetness behind as he adjusted her. 

“Now this what I’m talkin’ about,” Deacon asserted, and he pulled her ass tight against his chest as she adjusted her wobbling, heel-clad feet to be outside his thighs on the booth’s cushioned seat, then released his grip to allow her to rise. Now, in a thigh-spread half-squat and with his penis jutting straight up, her bubble ass was in the perfect position to serve was a furrow for that meat.

“Spread your fuckin’ ass, nigger,” he growled. Desirée felt her tummy quiver and reached behind herself to pull apart her enormous black bubble butt as lewdly as she could. It was an amazing sight, her delicate, small hands fighting against the mounds of glazed, tattooed chocolate flesh that threatened to spill out every turn. Her hips were explosive and her butt too generous to be held back. 

Deacon grunted and reached up to grip her fishnets, tearing them open with muted snaps, fully exposing her. “Present yourself,” he ordered. His voice did sound a bit thick with anticipation, and he had a grip on the base of his cock, keeping it menacingly upright, the tip less than six inches from her pussy and asshole. “Tell me what I’m buying!”

“It’s… it’s my big nigger ass!” Desirée gasped, exhaling and biting her bottom lip as she continued to spread herself in front of him and make her cheeks bulge and pour through her fingers.    
  
_ God, that big white monster is just inches from my pussy and asshole, _ she thought.  _ He could pull me down onto it right now if he wanted. That big muhfuckin’ white donkey dick would be in my *guts*! The most packin’ homeboys on my contact list wouldn’t even touch the fuckin’ sides after, if he made me take the whole thing.  _

“Move that ass!” Deacon ordered, and in spite of her humiliation, Desirée snapped into action with swiftness that alarmed her, demonstrating that her ability to deny this man, this white man, had grown paper thin. She didn’t even think twice before dropping her hips and twerking that  _ massive ass _ right in his face, showing off her pussy, her asshole, every detail of her inked, bulging butt-globes being presented for his inspection.   
  
Her mind whirled with images of women of her skin color, in chains, bending over on plank board stages while white slave masters took a big handful of their dark-skinned asses, assessing how much they could breed, assessing how much  _ work _ those  _ big nigger buttocks  _ could put in in the cotton fields and in their bedrooms. And who were the ones who got to live in the big house and enjoy the luxuries while the field negros were busy at work? The ones who could take care of master’s dick, that’s who. The ones willing to sell their souls and take some big white cock!   
  
_ That’s you, _ her mind accused.  _ That’s you, that’s you, shakin’ yo’ ass for that slave mastuh! Shakin’ yo ass! Coonin for that monster dick! You a slave, girl. A slave to that *white pipe*! _

“Fuck!” she groaned, as her wet pussy brushed against the jutting tip of Deacon’s cock, making her clit sing and throb like an unexploded munition. “Fuck, that goddamn fuckin’ dick! Why did yo’ dick have to be so big, you crazy cracker?” She dropped her hips lower still and her pussy  _ mashed _ against that swollen tip. Spreading her puffy outer labia, dilating her hole slowly, achingly. It was as thick as a mahogany bedpost and just as unyielding. Desirée felt her body wanting to give into it. His hands went to her hips, gripping roughly, and began to guide her down.

“Now I finally get to feel that black cunt of yours,” Deacon hissed. And Desirée was past the point of a ‘ _ fuck you, cracker’ _ or ‘ _ eat shit, peckerwood _ ’. She only uttered a whimper as she felt the tender flesh of her pussy giving way to his leaking, softball-sized prick helmet. Instead of uttering an insult, she simply gasped and gritted her teeth. Her stance was totally lewd and animalistic - grunting, squatting, twerking over that jutting spire of meat, with her ass-cheeks right in the face of her enemy as if on display - and she mirrored it with animalistic groans and grunts as the enormous tip of Deacon’s cock filled the entrance to her pussy and then slid inside, with her wet labia sliding slightly closed to envelop his whole cockhead.

Of course, they couldn’t close much more than a little - his shaft was too thick for that. It curved up from his muscled pelvis like a scimitar. Desirée cried out at the feeling of having her pussy stretched wider than it ever had been. There was a feeling of throbbing, brutal fullness - she could  _ feel _ his blood pulsing and his fat cum pipe spasming and leaking into her. She allowed her leg muscles to settle and another two inches of meat slid inside with a wet, churning sound.   
  
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” Desirée cried. Her mouth opened and she sprayed out harsh breaths, like a woman in labor. Her panting only made the scene more animalistic. The text scrawled above her shaved pussy - “QUEEN” - seemed to be pushed up and out by an invading cylinder shape. Rivulets of her wetness were leaking down Deacon’s shaft; and lucky for her, too - for without so much lubrication, the cock inside her would have been doing even more damage. As it was, her clit was pressed up and out like a pea emerging from its pod. Her pee-hole and its membrane were being mashed flat by the size of that white meat, and her insides were gripping the invader like a second skin. It felt… 

Amazing. Overwhelming.

_ My pussy is being stretched. It’s being *fucked up*. It’s changing into shape of this muh’fuckin white monster dick. If I cum now I’m gonna lose my mind. If I cum now- _

Deacon pulled down on her hips guiding her. There was the wet sound of sex-meat sliding through a wet, hot passage. The bulge in Desirée’s pelvis moved up to just below her belly-button, and she cried out like an animal in heat. 

There was absolutely no restraint in her cry, no pride, no grasping for the last vestiges of dignity. Her knees went weak and for the first time her unfettered sexual arousal came to the forefront. The intensity of the penetration was such that Desirée did not consider how much she disliked Deacon’s personality, or how little she wanted to give him the satisfaction of having an advantage over her. Seven inches of his bicep-thick fuckmeat were inside her pussy and the pleasure overwhelmed the pain and came pouring out like a tsunami over a flood wall.   
  
Her eyes rolled. She moaned like a wild beast. Her pelvis muscles began spasming and her toes curled, causing her ankles to wobble in their stiletto platforms. She was cumming. Cumming harder than she ever had in her life, all over that white cock. Instead of hunching forward she collapsed backward against Deacon’s chest, crying out as she laid her head in the crook of his neck, supporting herself with her hands behind her. She squirted powerfully, spraying a hot explosion of lube halfway across the room, leaving a gleaming splatter line across the floor.

“You were such a sassy black bitch but now you’re cumming like a slut all over this white cock,” Deacon growled into her ear. “You really love that cock, huh? Let me hear you say it.”

Desirée panted and gasped. Deacon pulled her down another three inches. His fat cock-crown was reaching her belly-button now. Desirée tensed and squirted again, this time all the way to the door, a long, unbroken line of lube as she orgasmed powerfully. “Yes! Yes, I fuckin’... love it!” she wailed, her amber eyes looking overwhelmed and exhausted from the pleasure and pressure of having so much meat inside her. “I fuckin’ love this big white dick!”

Deacon thrust his hips up, pressing his cock in until the leaking, spasming pisshole pressed against her cervix. Desirée cried out again. Her mind was spinning. That white dick was right up against her womb, leaking that pre-nut into her most sacred, life-giving place, colonizing it. She had taken dicks this deep, but never one even half as thick. She felt her hips creaking and an emanating pressure, pleasure and pain that combined to be explosive, and could only be released by having a massive, degrading orgasm all over that white cock!    
  
“What are you?” Deacon hissed, reaching around her cheek to wrap a hand around her throat. 

She thought of black slavegirls bending down in front of white masters, fair-skinned bull studs with cocks down to their knees. Black girls, black women like her, being turned into baby-factories for mulatto, mixed-race kids.  Reaching behind themselves to spread their thick asses and expose their dusky, white-owned cunts. Their bonnets and dresses strewn on the floor, their cum-soaked, white-worshiping lives unfolding into the eons ahead.

“I’m a f-fucking…  _ nigger _ !” Desirée wailed. It was her final surrender.   


Deacon’s cocktip stretched open her cervix and invaded her womb, filling and pressing against the back wall, forcing it up into her guts. He began to thrust. He was more then two-thirds inside now, stirring up Desirée’s guts, making her taut, toned midsection undulate around his unyielding pipe. “Oh my fuckin’ gawwwd… I’m getting… fucked up by this white monster cock!” Desirée moaned, and she tilted her head back into the crook of his neck again, washing her perfumed hair over his chin and chest. “It’s in my fuckin’ womb!”   
  
Much as she’d resisted the idea, it was hard to argue that her bombastic black bimbo body wasn’t tailor made to take on Deacon’s savage white horse cock and look good doing it. Her ass-cheeks pillowed against his abs as he held her in place with a firm arm around the waist and tunneled into her; her massive tits, spritzed with sweat and gleaming in all of their chocolate glory, also bounced up and down hypnotically.   
  
“Look at how much of this cock you’re taking, you fucking nigger whore!” Deacon hissed into her ear. “Just like you took the whole thing… nnngh… down your fucking throat! This shit comes natural to you, doesn’t it? Well you can’t just lay there - I know your black ass can do more than that! You need to earn that cum! You need to work that dick!”

“Fuuuuu-u-u-u-u-uck!” Desirée wailed, in time with his speeding thrusts. He was jamming more and more into her, reshaping her, churning her guts. What had been two-thirds insertion became eighteen inches, then twenty. She began to move in time with his thrusts, moving her hips with the instincts of a vixen on the mating prowl, not thinking but just doing it. “Y-yes! I’m just a muh’fuckin nasty  _ nigguh _ bitch for your white cock! Get that fuckin’ monster all up in my guts! Fuck my shit uuuuu-u-u-uu-p!” She was a cock-frenzy, and braced her platform heels on the bench in order to raise her pussy up until Deacon’s knob was on the verge of popping out. 

Then, Desirée Watters went to  _ work _ . 

The difference between simply getting fucked and working a cock became apparent as she grabbed her ankles, thrust out her round ass and began to lift and drop her hips with big, knee

Bending dips. Her pussy  _ painted _ up and down Deacon’s shaft, from inch one to inch twenty-four,  with every athletic dip. The effect on him as immediate.    
  
“Oh fuck!” he gasped. “You fuckin’ nasty nigger whore! Take that fucking cock! You know how to work it, don’t you?”

“That’s right!” Desirée gasped, popping that ass up and down his cock with long, exaggerated hip motions, again and again and again. “Nastiest bitch you’ll ever meet!” It was an amazing sight, watching that pussy-slick white pole disappear into her body and then emerge again, time after time. Deacon had been driving the action before, but now Desirée was doing all the work, wrapping her pussy around Deacon’s jutting, monster spike and milking that shit, showing him what a  _ slutty, dick-taking _ black Barbie she really was. It was like her pussy was bottomless, the way she took inch after inch of white pipe into her sopping, churning guts.

Soon, they were fucking in earnest, him thrusting back into her, their hips meeting with en explosive bang as his hands groped and squeezed her ass, her tits, every part of her body that seemed enticing. Her ass-mounds slapped against his thighs and her breasts poured through his fingers. “I’m workin’ your cock like a fuckin’ nigger,” Desirée seethed back at him as he grabbed her neck and his hand closed around her throat. “This nigger bitch wants your seeds. I want that fuckin’ white nut. I want that fuckin’ cum in my nigger pussy! Breed me, white boy! Breed me like a fuckin’ nigger sla-a-a-a-a-ave!” 

Desirée’s final forbidden word became a warbling, yodeling shriek as Deacon buried himself to the balls. A cockhead-shaped bulge was protruding up and out above Desirée’s navel… she’d managed to take every inch of that two-foot monster, and unable to travel any further up into her stomach, heart and lungs it curved out and up; her belly was nothing more than a dick-sleeve. Her uterus was totally stuffed with white dick and her vaginal canal would no doubt never be the same after such a brutal Caucasian resizing. Her arms and legs went limp and spasmed as she had the most humiliating orgasm yet; an eye-rolling, inglorious, nostril flaring, tongue-wagging, spine-bending  _ cumquake _ . A fountain of squirt hosed across the room and splattered all over Deacon’s heavy ballsack, which was positioned right below Desirée’s straining, swollen labia.

Every muscle on her gorgeous, fit black body stood out in a rictus. Sculpted shoulders, slender, graceful, balletic arms and calves, all the same caramel brown color. Sweat danced on her skin. Her breasts bounced and draped over Deacon’s gripping forearm like wobbling meat sacks, the dark nipples painfully erect and raised. And as ever, her ass-mounds, those two bubbly hemispheres that were her calling card her entire adult life, compressed against Deacon’s pelvis, bulging out.   


“Take my cum,” Deacon growled. “Fuckin’ nigger bitch!” 

He growled and orgasmed with her, and her mouth gasped silently at the sensation; she could feel him cumming, bloating her womb with fat spurts of jizz from that twenty-four inch sperm cannon, drowning her most sacred place in a tar-thick reservoir of white reproductive material. It was so hot and heavy and thick! She could fill it inflating her womb, filling her oviducts, pouring back out of her pussy. With each twitch of Deacon’s cock, a nasty, chowdery splurt of semen was ejected from the tight seal her pussy made around the base of his cock, slopping down onto his balls and the booth seat.

Desirée’s switch had been hit. The brutal, soul-evaculating orgasms had more intense than anything she had ever felt. She looked down at her own midsection with glazed, spent eyes and looked at the bulging dick-shape that was pushing up on her skin with pure awe, as if she was looking on the face of god for the first time. In a way, she was. Deacon’s cock had reshaped her body, but it had done the same to her mind. The admission that she loved Deacon’s two-foot pussy destroyer no longer came with a sting to her pride. Her desire for it was pure.   
  
“Thank me,” Deacon growled into her ear.    
  
“Thank you, daddy.” The response was immediate and natural. She did not hesitate or have any second thoughts. It felt  _ right _ . Deacon’s brutal white cock had resized her pussy and tamed her black soul. She knew it, and he knew it. He decided to test his control.   
  
“You talked a lot of shit, but you’re nothing but a worthless nigger cumdump, aren’t you?”   
  
Desirée leaned her face into Deacon’s neck like an obedient pet and licked up his jawline. “Yes, daddy. I’m such a stupid nigger whore.” She kissed him with an idolator’s reverence. “Your cock is so fucking big. You own my pussy now. I need a white daddy.” Her voice had an infantile quality that added to the utter tawdriness of her submission. She had been utterly defeated, and in the aftershocks of her many orgasms, was apologizing to the true dominant force in their strange and twisted relationship.    
  
Another sluice of hot creampied cum slid from her pussy and over Deacon’s balls as she continued to whisper to him. “I need a white bull to own me. Please say you’ll do that, Daddy. I want to fuck and suck your superior 24-inch god cock while you slap my face and call me a fucking  _ nigger _ .” It was the same voice that had flashed him so much African-American sass, but desperate to the point of weeping. She wanted him to use that word and nothing else. It had a talismanic power that illustrated the difference between them succinctly and shockingly. It reminded her of her place, constantly. It was the distillation of her relationship with his godlike 24-inch fuckmeat.

“You’re my property from now on, nigger,” Deacon hissed in her ear. His hand moved around to grope one of her breasts roughly. Desirée’s face softened and took on a smile utter satisfaction. She loved massive white cocks and she loved being called a nigger by white men. 

Desirée Watters had been totally whitewashed.

 

* * *

 

In the months that followed, it was clear that Desirée had “changed teams”. In terms of theatrics and personality, she hadn’t really changed at all. The same forceful, say-anything sass that had effortlessly turned sex into prosperity and prestige was still present. She was still on social media, still preaching that young black women should keep their bodies and booties looking right so they could score some serious dick. The difference was in the details. 

Instead of videos titled “WHITE BOYS AIN’T SHIT”, making fun of white men who bombarded her DMs with dick pics, the script was flipped. Posts reading “BLACK MEN VS. THE WHITE TRUTH”, comparing the penises of hopeful black admirers to the almighty cock of Deacon Dane, became the norm. She posted a picture of her face absolutely plastered with cum and captioned it “how a black girl does makeup for her white daddy”. She reposted images of Civil Rights-era signs from shops, reading “Whites Only!” or “No Service For Negros” with captions about they would make good tattoos for black women to slap on their asses or above their pussies. She and her followers exhibited a growing fascination with objects and styles of dress that reflected the times of slavery and Jim Crow. She shared dozens of pictures on such subjects. She even had a name for it -  _ Slave Couture _ .

The premise of the lifestyle was simple: A black women didn’t need anything for fulfillment other than to be kept in cars, clothing and jewels by a white slave master. Any white man with a cock over ten inches would do, but of course, larger was better.  _ Slave Couture _ was, simply, the style needed to attract a dominant white man. A big ass was needed. Big tits too. Big, fat dicksucker lips. And, of course, the willingness and desire to be treated like a piece of property. Black girls into the lifestyle got tattoos declaring they were “white owned”, usually on their thick, bouncing black ass cheeks, and specialized in “showing out”; acting slutty and submissive for the pleasure of their white masters.  

In one twelve minute video on a private account only serious tribute payers and fans, Desirée demonstrated this. She walked into a room and knelt in front of a low-angled camera wearing black sports lingerie with white piping that is lettered with the words “BLEACHED”. Her manicure was still impeccable and her makeup flawless, but her facial expression was somehow softer, and unfamiliar, much like her surroundings. She was no longer broadcasting from her fancy apartment, with all its pieces of African art, but rather from the carpet of a sparsely-decorated room in a mansion owned by Deacon Dane. It was one of several he owned; he hadn’t bothered to decorate much, and kept Desirée like a pet in this one, much to her satisfaction.

“Hey ya’ll,” she said, looking into the camera with beautiful amber eyes. “Welcome back to another episode of  _ Slave Couture _ with Ree. For all ya’ll homegirls that love bein’ white-owned, this is the spot.” At this point a shadow moved around the edge of the camera and it became apparent that someone else was in the room, someone whose simple movement demanded Desirée’s strict attention. She broke off what she was saying and listened to the voice of the second figure, showing obedience that seemed directly counter to the sass and personality of her previous vids, snaps and Instagram postings.

“Yes, God?” Desirée said earnestly, to the off-camera figure, then listened to some words not picked up by the microphone. She nodded obediently and then turned back to the camera. “Today I want to tell ya’ll ‘bout scarification. Ya’ll know back in the day, white slave-masters used to whip on niggas and leave ‘em all with lashes on they backs… and I think that’s hot as fuck!” Her face filled with a dreamy sort of euphoria. “Ain’t no better to show your master that you love receiving his white justice! So ask your tattoo artist about it, ya’ll - oh, shit!”

Her voice broke off and her eyes shifted sideways as a massive Caucasian cocktip, circumcised and flared, appeared on the right side of the frame. It was as large as a good-sized grapefruit and a powerful hand was fisting it lazily, disrespectfully, dominantly, right in Desirée’s gorgeous black face! She couldn’t take her eyes off it, and delivered more of her monologue while keeping eye contact with the fat prong tip as opposed to the view.

“Shit… it’s so fuckin’ big… white men really have the biggest cocks!” A powerful hand appeared and moved to her head. Her eyes tilted upward, obviously making contact with the unseen white man. He gripped her shining, straight black hair roughly and jerked her head to an upward angle. The cocktip moved forward to prod and mash her fat, swollen dick-sucker lips around her face as she uttered an animalistic groan as chunky wads of sperm burst from his large pisshole and onto her mouth.

“Thanks for blessing my big nigger lips with your cum, God,” she moaned, and then gasped out a breath as the cocktip continued to mash her mouth and slide against her lips and cheeks. The man’s hand jacked fat curds of pre-cum out of his prick with a slow, milking motion, drawing them like shoelaces over Desirée’s nose, upper lip, and chin. She shuddered and her breathing picked up, making it obvious that she was fingering herself out of frame. Her huge tits hung like boulders in the “BLEACHED” lingerie sports bra.

The cock withdrew after marking her sufficiently, and Desirée looked back into the camera with a degrading cum glaze on her mouth, even using her tongue to push and spread the jizz coating around and play with the thicker strands. “Life is so much easier with a white bull to keep me in my place. I love eating his thick, nasty  _ white cum _ !” There is no sign that she is joking, her shining eyes seem utterly, totally earnest. “And,” she adds, “If you need those lips to swell a little, ask your white God to give you the muh’fuckin’  _ business _ !”

SLAP! 

The hand returned to frame and slapped Desirée across the mouth with an open-hand blow as she moaned with pleasure. “Oh, fuck! Thank you, God!” She put the back of her hand to the corner of her mouth and soothed the stinging pain… but when she removed it there is no doubt her already-luscious, glossed lips were even puffier. She licked around the edges lewdly, playing with the cum glaze some more and making lewd expressions at the camera.

“I never knew how great my life could be until I had a hung white daddy to fuck me and call me a fucking nigger,” Desirée confided, speaking conspiratorially to viewer. The huge penis, Deacon Dane’s huge penis, appeared at the side of the frame again, hanging from above Desirée’s head nearly to her navel as she squats. She nearly swooned as she observed the length and caressed it with two worshipful hands. “I know a talked a whole mess before about that black pride shit, but now I know - no black woman can be  _ right _ in her soul unless she’s on her muh’fuckin knees in front of a hung white bull. It’s out destiny, yo. We were  _ made _ for this shit!”   
  
She leaned in to plant a reverent kiss on the flopping, dangling cockshaft, pressing her cum-covered lips together with a smack and inhaling the scent of dick with an exaggerated breath before looking up and out of frame with childlike enthusiasm. Then she raised her eyes up at the cock’s owner and spoke again. “It’s so fuckin’ big! Master, may I have the honor of having my worthless nigger ass split open by your white godhood?”    
  
Desirée must have received the answer she wanted from off-screen, for she immediately slid her designer “BLEACHED” underwear down over her explosive hips and leaned forward onto all fours, staring into the camera in a doggy position while letting her tits hang in their bra and making her ass-mounds clap hypnotically - two big, fat moon-shaped globes jiggling outward and then clapping back in.

“I love it when Master pulls apart my  _ nigger assmeat  _ and fucks me like a dog!” she confided sinfully as she waited for the disgraceful penetration that was forthcoming. “I always keep my ass lookin’ right. I want my white bull to be able to grab a handful any time he wants, and feel how big and round it is, like he was back at the muh’fuckin’ slave auction waitin’ to buy a piece!” Her eyes rolled back with joy as she let her buttocks bounce against each other, showing out that black booty for her ‘master’. 

Her muscled white ‘owner’ - who could only be Deacon Dane - moved into position behind her. His massive cock bounced half-hard like an elephant’s trunk as he got on his knees and grabbed two giant handfuls of Desirée’s ass, groping it, squeezing it, pulling her cheeks lewdly apart and making the flesh spill through his fingers. Her “THOT LIFE” tattoo is nearly obscured by his palms as he kneads her buns like a buyer testing the quality of meat at a butcher shop. He lets his cock slide between her cheeks and onto her back, where it sprayed a hot rope of chunky white precum between her shoulder blades and made her squeal.

“Oh, fuck! Master is such a muh’fuckin stud!” Desirée gasped, still making eye contact with the camera. “I love taking his huge loads!” Deacon pulled his hips back and entered her without regard for her comfort, and it was clear from her face that this is just the way Desirée expected and desired to be treated. His massive white pole drilled into her bowels, stretching them, turning her intestinal tract into dick sleeve and making her ass-cheeks split around his him. He began to withdraw and thrust, and Desirée was ragdolled helplessly, her toes curling, her flesh bouncing with the sordid, moist impact of his pelvis. The sound of her guts being churned was audible to every viewer of the sordid video.

“Yes… thank you, white God…” she groaned, her voice stuttering with each impact. Her face became a mask of orgasmic bliss as her bowels were abraded by foot after foot of white cock and her pussy slapped by Deacon’s big, swinging ballsack. He made her work that dick, withdrawing all the day and pounding back in as she thrust her hips back at him. Each time his long, white shaft was in the open air, pussy juice sprayed off the length in a fine haze. 

“I got… two feet of fuckin’... white… cock… up in my guts!” Desirée rasped, huffing at the camera. Her huge tits were piled on the ground in the “BLEACHED” bra, showing a canyon of cleavage and her straight black hair fell about her shoulders. “Unnnfff… fuck… so fuckin’... big! I’m… I’m… I want to be a white man’s property! Hnnng! F-fuck! I want… I need… white cock!”

“Tell them what you want,” Deacon prompted. It was the first time his voice was audible in the video. Desirée, panting and gasping, immediately obeyed.

“I want your superior white nut up my muh’fuckin nigger ass!” she wailed. “Pump me full of that nasty shit! I’m yo’ nigger. Nnnngh! I’m just a nigger cumdump for my white god!” Deacon lifted her hind legs up into what was almost a wheelbarrow position, standing Desirée nearly on her head as he drove forward and down.   
  
SLLRRGH. SLLLLCH. Meaty sounds were heard as Deacon’s softball-sized cocktip cleaved through Desirée’s guts. With her legs at a higher angle her bouncing ass-globes were more prominent, wobbling back and forth with each long thrust and recession, bouncing like big caramel moons, but prevented from clapping shut because of the thick hose of white meat drilled into her asshole. The thrusts continued for three or four more minutes, Desirée shuddering and climaxing the entire time, moaning about white cock and she wanted that  _ nut, that cracker cream, that nasty-ass thick cum _ from her master’s huge balls.

He hilted himself at last and grunted; that he was emptying his white cock inside the dark vessel of Desirée’s asshole was obvious. Again audible sounds were heard as hot lances of thick cum hosed down Desirée’s spasming, dick-gripping asspipe and pooled deep in her guts. She brought a hand to her belly and rubbed the spot where Deacon’s cocktip was bulging beneath her skin, caressing herself reverently in that location as it expanded slightly with the massive load of semen inside, showing how much she cared about that load; that she worshiped not just her master’s white cock but his huge cum load as well.

When she fell forward and sideways, onto one hip, showing the camera her neck, her back, and the landscape view of her hips curving up into her explosive ass, one tattooed, sweat-glazed brown cheek stacked on top of the other. Though turned away, Desirée could still be heard to groan and rub a hand over her belly. “Fuck! You shot about a gallon of nut into my fuckin’ guts!” she said, breathily, and her tone was one of struggling awe. No doubt her bowels were churning with cum and her asshole was on fire from being stretched so wide. 

“Show everyone,” came the order.

Desirée reached down and lifted her topmost cheek, showing the cum-leaking ruin of her asshole - the dark, raised, roughly triangular orifice that so many men had dreamed about fucking. She spread herself obediently and disgracefully, lifting the meat of her buttock high, showing off how much sperm was leaking out of her resized shitter. As she did this, a spurt off porridge-thick sperm blew out of her asshole and down mountainous side of her lower cheek, piling on the floor. She was shaky and sweaty with post-orgasmic aftershocks, but still held up her opposite hand and waved to the camera. Deacon’s hand came into frame and started running through her hair and she craned her neck up to start kissing and sucking his fingers.   
  
“Thank you for fucking this worthless nigger, God,” she moaned, breathily, before beginning to fellate his middle and index fingers. Then, as the video began to fade out, held his softening cock up against her face and she began to make out with the pisshole.

“I love you, God,” she whispered, barely audible on the recording. “Can I please lick your asshole and suck your balls now? You taste  _ so _ muh’fuckin good!” Another massive, chunky, degrading cum fart blew out of her ass and over her cum-splattered butt cheek.    
  
Deacon gave her the nod. And as Desirée got in position to do the deed, the video faded, appropriately, to white. 


End file.
